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Book ' *5 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 








v 











BY L. ALLEN HARKER 


THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 
THE BRIDGE ACROSS 
MONTAGU WYCHERLY 
ALLEGRA 

CHILDREN OF THE DEAR COTSWOLDS 

JAN AND HER JOB 

THE FFOLLIOTS OF REDMARLEY 

MISS ESPERANCE AND MR. WYCHERLY 

MR. WYCHERLY’S WARDS 

MASTER AND MAID 

CONCERNING PAUL AND FIAMMETTA 

A ROMANCE OF THE NURSERY 


CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 




THE REALLY 
ROMANTIC AGE 






THE REALLY 
ROMANTIC AGE 


BY 

; L. ALLEN HARKEll 


> > > 
> > 

> > > 


NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 

1923 


4 



Copyright, 192*, 1923, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


Printed in the United States of America 


Published February, 1923 




FEB 24’23 

©C1A698419 


V A A 


I 





TO THE 

ONE WHO KNOWS IT IS FOR HER 





I 















CONTENTS 


PART I—THE WOMAN 

PAGE 

I. The Charge. 3 

II. The Taking of It.13 

III. The Journey.18 

IV. Thatches. 24 

V. “She Brought the Blessed Sleep . . .” 39 

VI. Succour. 44 

VII. Margot.52 

PART II—THE WORLD 

I. Cynthia.59 

t 4 

II. The Family.79 

III. The Godfather.88 

IV. “Poor Old John”.98 

V. Mrs. Jones. 110 

VI. The Secret Heart of Margot . . 119 

PART III—THE CHILD 

I. “Himself”.129 

II. People. 134 

III. Beekinetwit. 138 

vii 















Vlll 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


IV. The Necklace.141 

V. Fantasies, Faith, and Friends . . 144 

PART IV—THE MAN 

I. Coming Events.159 

II. Pamela.169 

III. The Limpet.182 

IV. Fate and Margot.194 

V. The Day of Reckoning.201 

VI. A Medley .210 

VII. Which Is Short. 225 

VIII. “Wherever She Goes”.231 

IX. The Deliverer.238 

X. Her Way .247 

XI. In Which She Gets It.256 











PART I 


THE WOMAN 


THE 

REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 

I 

THE CHARGE 

People began to collect their luggage in the 
corridor, lights from tall houses shone in the 
darkness, and just as the train crawled into 
Paddington she remembered that she had heard 
London was crammed, and she had made no 
arrangements of any sort as to where she should 
sleep. 

A long wait. Then half-a-crown and an oblig¬ 
ing porter found her a taxi, and as she was driven 
along the Edgware Road she wondered whether 
Molly had got a little flat, and if she could give 
her a bed. 

“25, Kilburn Priory” conveyed nothing, and 
it seemed a long way from Paddington. At last 
the taxi stopped in a badly-lighted, crescent¬ 
shaped road, and on the glass fan-light over the 
door she saw the number and that the house was 
a fairly large one. 

A rather untidy servant opened the door, and 
further down the passage she saw a nurse in 
uniform. 

“Is this Mrs. Bent’s house?” she asked. 


4 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 

“No, she ain’t; this is a nursin’ ’ome.” The 
maid spoke with a sort of hostile gloom, and was 
about to shut the door. 

“Oh, please wait a minute. Can you tell me 
where 25, Kilburn Priory is?” 

“This is 25, Kilburn Priory, but it ain’t no 
Mrs. Bent’s.” 

“P’r’haps the lady’s stoppin’ ’ere,” the driver 
suggested hopefully from his seat. She had her¬ 
self carried her little suitcase up the steps. 

The nurse at the end of the passage came 
forward. 

“Have you come to see Mrs. Bent? Are you 
a relative? She is very ill, you know.” 

“She asked me to come. I only got her letter 
this afternoon and came off at once.” 

“I’d better tell Matron; please come inside. 
We should be glad if someone belonging to her 
did come, for we don’t think she can last over 
the night.” 

Shocked and distressed, Mellory Upton laid 
her hand on the nurse’s arm as she turned to 
go. Please,” she said, “what is the matter with 
her?—what has made her so very ill?” 

“All sorts of complications following a neg¬ 
lected cold. She was run down and left it too 
long.” 

“And her baby,” Mellory asked, “where is 
her baby?” 

“Here, unfortunately,” the nurse said. “It’s 
most inconvenient. . . . I’ll go and find Matron. 
Just step in here.” 

The room was depressing. Square, with 
chocolate-coloured walls, an oblong table in the 


THE CHARGE 


5 


middle covered with a red cloth. An engraving 
of “Harmony” over the sideboard, a walnut 
overmantel above the fireplace adorned with 
strange derelict vases full of faded “everlasting” 
flowers. 

Mellory’s knees were shaking, and her eyes 
ached in the glare of the unshaded electric bulb 
in the centre of the ceiling. She pulled out one 
of the chairs set close under the table and sat 
down. There was no fire, and the room smelt 
like a vault. In spite of her long fur coat, she 
shivered. 

Would the Matron never come? 

At last! 

A worn thin woman with a narrow suspicious 
face lit by dark beady eyes that seemed to bore 
like gimlets. 

Mellory took an instant dislike to her, and 
noted with aversion that her cuffs were dirty. 

“You’ve come to see Mrs. Bent,” Miss-?” 

“Upton. She sent for me. I understand from 
the nurse I saw that she is very ill.” 

“Very ill indeed. A hopeless case from the 
first. We would never have taken her but that 
Dr. Campbell almost thrust her upon us. She 
seems extraordinarily solitary; no one at all has 
come to see her, and she has been here three 
days.” 

“I’ve come. May I go to her at once?” 

“Are you a relation?” 

“No, I am not a relation, but I know her 
well. She was one of my girls in the munition 
colony. I’m very fond of her; and she sent 
for me.” 



6 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 

“I suppose she really is married?” Matron 
remarked. 

“Of course she is married.” Mellory began 
to dislike the Matron more and more. “Her 
husband died quite recently, which probably 
accounts for her own illness. Mayn't I go to 
her?” 

“I really don't know what to say,” she began; 
“and if you're not a relation . . 

“Nonsense!” Mellory exclaimed, feeling that 
she would scream in another minute. “What 
does that matter? I must go to her; that’s 
what I’ve come for.” 

By this time the Matron had decided that 
this small persistent lady was all right. She had 
thoroughly inspected the suitcase lying in the 
passage outside; it looked prosperous. Her furs 
were handsome. Moreover, her rather timid 
manner had proved misleading. In the last 
minute or two she had spoken like somebody 
accustomd to be obeyed. 

“Are you staying near here?” the Matron 
asked. 

“I’m not staying anywhere. I came straight 
here from the station. I thought perhaps it was 
Mrs. Bent’s own house. Can you possibly give 
me a room here just for to-night? Of course, 
as a purely business arrangement. I’d like to be 
near her.” 

“We’re very full,” the Matron said grudgingly, 
“but perhaps we could manage something just 
for to-night. Dr. Campbell said he’d look in last 
thing. Probably you’d like to see him?” 


THE CHARGE 7 

“I must see him, of course. Now will you take 
me to Mrs. Bent?” 

She looked so young lying there. A long 
straight mound under the bedclothes. A swing- 
cot was beside the bed with a little mound in it. 

Her short hair was brushed back from her 
forehead. This, and her closed eyes, curiously 
changed her. The cheeky, merry face that Mel- 
lory had known seemed now the face of a young 
saint. 

There was a gas fire which burned with a soft 
persistent hiss. The electric bulb was shaded, 
but to Mellory, accustomed to cherished and 
fastidious invalids, the room seemed unrestfully 
light. 

She took off her heavy coat and her hat, and 
laid them softly on a chair. 

“I think she’s conscious,” the Matron said. 

Molly opened her eyes, saw Mellory, and 
smiled. 

“Of course I’m conscious,” she said. 

The saint vanished. This boyish-looking girl 
with eyes that were still merry was the Molly 
Mellory knew. 

“You needn’t stay, Matron; Miss Upton will 
ring if I go funny. I must speak to her while I 
can; it’s most important.” 

“You mustn’t talk long,” Matron said grudg¬ 
ingly. “I’ll send Nurse Angela when I think it’s 
time.” 

Molly made a face at her departing back. 

“Quick!” she whispered, as the door was shut. 
“Just have a peep at my little boy. He’s not 


8 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


quite so beautiful as he was, because I’ve had 
to give up nursing him since I had such colds. 
He’s such a good little soul, not a bit of trouble, 
really. ...” The husky voice was eager. 
“Truly he isn’t, and he’ll be four months old 
on Sunday.” 

Mellory went round the bed and peeped into 
the cot. All she could see was the back of a small 
head covered with downy, darkish hair. 

“They’ll take him away directly he wakes,” 
the husky voice went on, “and I mayn’t so 
much as kiss him in case I give him a germ or 
something. Isn’t he sweet?” 

“Very sweet,” Mellory agreed. “Now tell 
me, dear, while you have the chance, what it is 
you want.” 

“Your mother died the same week as Joe, 
didn’t she? I saw it in the paper. You’re all 
alone now, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, all alone.” As she spoke Mellory knelt 
down beside the bed. 

“Tell me, would you like to have my sonny for 
your very own? Would you have him if I gave 
him to you?” 

“But, my dear, I hope you’re going to keep 
your sonny for yourself, for many, many years.” 

“That’s nonsense, you know; it’s no use pre¬ 
tending. I’m going West, quite soon, too; but 
I can’t go in any peace if I haven’t fixed things 
for my little boy. . . . He’ll have a little 
pension, he won’t be quite penniless, and there’s 
a hundred pounds in the bank.” 

“But, Molly dear, even supposing I did have 
him, isn’t there somebody with more claim, some 


THE CHARGE 9 

relation who might want to take him away from 
me?” 

Molly laughed, a hard, breathless laugh. 
“That’s it,” she said, “there’s nobody wants him. 
Joe had no parents, like me—only a sister much 
older than him, with seven children. Her 
husband works in a vineyard, near Adelaide. 
They’re not very well off. She wouldn’t want 
him . . . and if she did, however could he get 
out there? I’ve only got Uncle and Aunt, and 
they wouldn’t do. They’re far too hard and 
nubbly to have to do with a baby—besides, 
they’re too old. He’s so little ... he must have 
love. . . . Couldn’t you love him?” 

Mellory trembled. “If I had him,” she said, 
“I’d love him with all my heart.” 

Molly caught at her hand, lifted it, and tucked 
it under her cheek. “You don’t know,” she said, 
“how it has worried me, because I read some¬ 
where that babies in workhouses and institutions 
die, not because people are unkind or neglectful, 
but just because they don’t get the cuddling 
ordinary babies get . . . and he’s had such a 
lot. I’ve done everything for him myself. Joe 
wanted me to have a little nursemaid, but I 
knew I shouldn’t have a servant over there at 
first—not till we got on a bit. You know, all 
‘Aussies’ aren’t so awfully rich, though they 
seem so compared with our Tommies.” She 
paused, tired and breathless. 

“Don’t talk any more just now,” Mellory said 
gently. “You can tell me the rest presently.” 

“No, I must be quick. There’s precious little 
presently for me. I don’t mind going much if it 



10 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


wasn’t for my little boy. I don’t say I wouldn’t 
like to have seen a bit more of life. It’s been 
rather fun on the whole; but lately I’ve been so 
miserable and frightened about little Joe. I’ve 
thought and thought and puzzled and worried 
. . . whatever was to become of him.” 

“I wonder,” Mellory said humbly, “whether 
I’m really the best person. Lots of people would 
call me an-old maid, you know.” 

“I don’t. You’re too jolly human. Besides, 
are there old maids any more? I’ve made a 
will, and I’ve left him to you if you’ll have him. 
Nurse Angela’s got it.” 

“Listen, Molly”—Mellory spoke with the 
authority of the old munition-colony days—“you 
must be good, and not worry; and not be afraid 
about anything. I promise to have baby for my 
own if you should not get better. But I hope 
you are going to get better. And then, when 
you can be moved, you’ll both come to me for a 
long visit, till you are really strong. You under¬ 
stand?” 

“You’ll love him—you’ll cuddle him? You’ll 
bring him up to have nice ways like as if he was 
your very own . . .?” 

There was something final—something un¬ 
answerable—in the way she dismissed the chance 
of her recovery. 

“You promise? You swear it?” 

“I swear to do my very best,” Mellory said 
solemnly, “and to love your baby as if he was 
my own son.” 

“You’ll teach him to talk like you? It sounds 
so pretty—not sidey—but just different.” 




THE CHARGE 


11 


“Oh, my dear, my dear, I’ll do everything I 
can. Tell me, Molly, has baby been christened?” 

“No; do you think he’s ill?” she asked 
anxiously. 

“Of course not, but I think he ought to be 
christened, don’t you?” 

“I don’t know much about religion and that. 
I was waiting for Joe. He wasn’t near so wild 
as some of them, and believed all sorts of funny 
things I’d never heard of. You see, Uncle dis¬ 
approved of religion; but I don’t. I don’t know 
much about it. You have it done if you want 
to. He’s been registered. Joseph Jay’s his name, 
after Joe, and Jay’s for my mother. I don’t 
remember her, but I thought I’d like my little 
boy to have her name. . . . Funny how you 
think of your mother when you’ve got a baby.” 

The husky voice trailed off into a sigh. The 
large bright eyes clouded and closed wearily. 

There was no sound in the room save the soft 
hiss of the gas fire. 

She still had Mellory’s hand lightly clasped 
under her cheek. 

Mellory knelt beside the bed and bowed her 
head to this Annunciation. 

The love of man and marriage had passed her 
by. Now, with her pleasant unadventurous life 
behind her, and middle-age in front, came this. 

The vigorous pruning to which she had always 
subjected her imagination when it pushed tim¬ 
idly in the direction of marriage or children 
had perhaps strengthened its sturdy, natural 
growth. 

As she knelt there trembling she realised for 


12 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


the first time how passionate had been this long¬ 
ing for a child who should be her very own. 
Even in the midst of her real grief for Molly she 
was conscious of an almost fierce triumph that 
her desire should be granted—even at the expense 
of this girl-mother’s enforced renunciation of all 
her love and pride. 

Sheltered as Mellory’s life had been, she was 
innately truthful, and just then she hated her¬ 
self. She had trained herself to see straight. 

“Oh, Molly, stay with us,” she whispered. 

The little mound in the swing-cot stirred and 
made an indescribable small sound. 

Mellory’s pulses were thumping in her ears. 
She was growing stiff. She had had nothing to 
eat since luncheon, and it was nearly nine 
o’clock. She had been through, and was still in 
the throes of great emotional stress. 

How long could she kneel like this? 

Ought she to call the nurse? 

The door opened, and the Doctor and Matron 
came in. 


II 


THE TAKING OF IT 

Afterwards, in thinking it over, she was thank¬ 
ful to remember that everything had been done 
for Molly that could be done. The Doctor was 
keen, skilful and kind, so was Nurse Angela, and 
together they fought for Molly’s life through the 
long hours of that night. 

But it seemed that once she had arranged for 
the future of her “little boy” her tired heart was 
at rest, and in the early morning she passed quite 
peacefully into that unknown she had not feared, 
save upon his account. 

The next three days will always seem to Mel- 
lory like a confused and rather dreadful dream, 
compounded of matrons, nurses, a forlorn funeral, 
where she and Nurse Angela were the only 
mourners, and a landlady in the Belsize Hoad, 
where Molly had lived in two noisy rooms on the 
shores of the London and North-Western Railway. 

There Mellory had to collect the baby’s little 
things, and such small matters as photographs 
and Molly’s few trinkets. Her clothes she be¬ 
stowed upon Nurse Angela and the landlady, who 
was kindly as she was loquacious. 

“Pore young lady!—she was a good little 
mother, an’ no mistake. I’ve never seen a better, 
an’ I’ve seen a good few. She never went out 

13 


14 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


without that child—not except the week as ’er 
’usban’ came ’ome and I minded ’im for ’er two 
or three evenin’s. Always gay and bright she 
was, nice-lookin’, too, an’ smart; but all ’er 
thoughts was for the biby, an’ it fair broke ’er 
’eart when the doctor said she wasn’t to go on 
nursin’ ’im. But I never thought as it would end 
in this. So you’re goin’ to take the little chap? 
Very good of you, I’m sure, an’ you single an’ all. 
It’s always a bit ’arder to start with childring 
when one isn’t, so to speak, quite young. No 
offence meant, nor none taken, I’m sure. Oh, 
yes; ’e’s a very ’ealthy child, good-tempered, too, 
but never still when ’e’s awake—it’s kick and 
wiggle and bounce with the kiddy every minute 
of the time. I kep’ ’im for hours the day she was 
took to the nursin’ ’ome, and I was quite wore 
out, ’e’s that strong. Nothin’ was too good for 
’im. Look at ’is pram an’ ’is cot—most classy 
sort both of ’em—but she didn’t spend much on 
’er own dress. Funny she was one way: always 
‘My little boy,” she says, like as if ’e was quite a 
big child instead of an infant. She was that 
proud of ’im when she took ’im out she always 
looked some’ow as if she was carryin’ a flag. Fine 
strappin’ girl she was before she got them chills, 
an’ Mr. Bent, ’e was a good-lookin’ man, if you 
like. Them Anzacs are. Not one to say much, 
but ’e worshipped ’er. Anyone could see that. 
An’ then to go an’ die of that beastly flu’ in 
Christmas week, an’ ’im been wounded twice an’ 
come right through the war. . . . Come to the 
funeral? No, I ain’t got no black clo’es—I 
never was one for black, an’ funerals fair gives 



THE TAKING OF IT 


15 


me the ’ump. Mornin’, is it? I couldn’t 
manage that anyway—I’ve got to get these 
rooms strite for the new lodger. An’ you goin’ 
back ’ome to-morrow, after it? Well, you’ll be 
sittin’ in the trine, an’ ’e’ll likely sleep if you 
gives ’im ’is bottle; ’e’s used to trines.” 

Out from a welter of confused impressions one 
emerged sharp and clear. 

Little Joe himself. 

When the Matron realised that Mellory would 
remove him at the first possible moment, and 
that she was prepared to pay liberally for any 
help they would give her, she and the baby were 
allowed to remain in the home till after Molly’s 
funeral on Friday morning. 

She made no attempt to communicate with 
any of her own people. For one thing, the settle¬ 
ment of Molly’s affairs took up all her time; for 
another, she dreaded the avalanche of scandal¬ 
ised disapproval that would try to overwhelm 
her decision when they should come to know of 
it. Already she seemed to hear a chorus of 
lamentation, bewailing her “romantic,” “head¬ 
strong,” “hasty” conduct; and she felt it would 
be easier to deal with her family’s objections by 
letter than face to face. Just because she was so 
fond of them all she felt a queer, creeping terror 
that if they knew what she had done before she 
and little Joe were safely entrenched in her own 
house, they might bring so many unanswerable 
arguments to bear upon her that somehow, 
against her will, he might be spirited away and 


16 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


given into what her relations would assure her 
were more competent hands than hers. 

And she wanted him—oh, how she wanted 
him!—in her own hands. Just then in the 
nursing home they were more than ready to place 
him there. This wonderful, warm, living bundle, 
so difficult to hold securely. 

A long baby, already short-coated, thin rather 
than fat, with big well-opened eyes like his 
mother’s. A restless, fidgeting baby, intensely 
interested in everything around him when he was 
awake. And he was awake a good deal more than 
was convenient just then. Fond of his bath and 
roaring when he was taken out of it. Roaring, 
too, when anything happened to displease him; 
no meek wail, but a good healthy yell which 
penetrated the walls of the Kilburn Priory house 
as though they had been paper. Mellory was 
obliged to confess that he was not at all a suitable 
inmate for a nursing home; and reflected with 
some complacency on the isolated position of her 
own house perched on the hill. She spent what 
time she could wheeling him up and down the 
quieter roads in the “classy” perambulator, which 
was uncommonly heavy. She was profoundly 
thankful that nobody she knew lived in St. John’s 
Wood. 

After much fruitless telephoning and a couple 
of thoroughly useless visits to registry offices, she 
decided to shelve the question of a nurse for him 
till she got home. Surely she and the maids could 
manage him amongst them for a day or two. 

Nurse Angela was allowed to go with them to 


THE TAKING OF IT 


17 


Paddington, to hold the baby while Mellory saw 
to her luggage. As always at that time, the train 
was crowded. The first class particularly so. 
Up and down the platform Mellory and Nurse 
Angela trudged, and gentlemen smoking large 
cigars and supercilious fur-coated ladies glared 
so fiercely at them when they tried to board any 
carriage that at last Mellory took refuge in a 
third, where there was just one seat. There 
a kindly woman gave her a corner when she saw 
the baby. 

“You’ll be all right now,” Nurse Angela en¬ 
couraged her, as she placed the baby on Mellory’s 
knee. “You’ve no change, and he’ll probably 
sleep till it’s time for his next bottle—it’s in the 
thermos all ready. Put your feet on the basket 
and you’ll hold him better. Now I must fly. 
Good-bye and good luck!” 

Her responsibility had indeed begun. 



Ill 


THE JOURNEY 

She looked at the watch on her wrist. Twenty 
minutes before the train was due to start. 

Little Joe began to wriggle and whimper. 
Nurse Angela was big and broad-bosomed, with 
a large comfortable embrace. 

Mellory, shrinking in her corner, holding him 
tightly in anxious, unaccustomed arms, was 
nothing like so pleasant a resting-place, and he 
resented the change. 

It wasn’t nearly time for another bottle yet; 
and the Doctor had so impressed upon her that a 
large proportion of infant mortality was due to 
overfeeding that Mellory dared not disobey him, 
or accelerate Joe’s meals by five minutes. 

Conscious that the gaze of seven pairs of eyes 
was concentrated upon her, her cheeks blazed, 
while her hands were cold as ice. She managed 
to pull off her gloves and patted Joe timidly, then 
tried to shift him to a more comfortable position. 

He woke up. 

There was nothing for it but to let him sit up, 
and trust that interest in his new surroundings 
would keep him good. With his absurd white hat 
(Molly had never allowed him anything remotely 
resembling a bonnet from the very first) much 

18 


THE JOURNEY 


19 


on one side, he surveyed the company with the 
scornful, withering gaze of infancy. His eyes 
travelled round the compartment. In the corner 
directly opposite to him was a land-girl, sturdy 
in breeches and gaiters. She good-naturedly 
“clucked” at him, but he ignored her. Next her 
was a lady in large owl spectacles reading Home 
Chat. Two nondescript men, also reading, filled 
that side. Next to Mellory was the kind woman 
who had given up her corner, who smelt strongly 
of peppermint, and was already half asleep. 
Two younger women, busily knitting jumpers, 
filled the remaining seats. 

Joe gave a bounce, flung himself back as a 
protest at the dullness of the company, and 
started to yell lustily. Everybody glared at 
Mellory, who tried all sorts of well-worn devices 
to quiet him. But he would have none of them. 
The peppermint lady awoke and demanded 
tartly: “Where’s ’is soother?” 

“He has never had one and never will,” was 
Mellory’s answer, completely drowned by Joe’s 
uproar. 

Hotter and hotter did she get. More and more 
vigorously did the baby fling himself about, seem¬ 
ing thereby to gain strength for greater efforts 
in the way of noise. “He’s ’ungry, pore lamb,” 
the peppermint lady announced to the company. 

Then Mellory became conscious that all the 
feminine eyes in the compartment were regarding 
her ringless left hand. She had taken off all her 
rings that morning lest they might in any way 
hurt little Joe, and had packed them in her suit¬ 
case. 


20 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 

Dressed in mourning, with net veil pendant 
from a small neat hat, her fellow passengers had 
decided she was a war widow. Now it seemed to 
her that even the peppermint lady looked hostile 
and suspicious, and doubtless regretted that she 
had given up her seat. 

And little Joe continued to cry lustily. 

Just before the train started the man in the 
corner got out, and a soldier took his place. 

Doors banged. The train slid out of the 
station. And little Joe continued to yell at the 
top of his voice. 

The soldier leant forward and cracked his 
fingers. Loud cracks like pistol shots. “You 
seem a bit peeved, old chap,” he remarked to Joe. 

Joe paused in the very middle of a yell. His 
face unpuckered, and he looked interested. The 
soldier obligingly cracked his fingers again, and 
winked at Joe. Then he lit a cigarette and blew 
out beautiful rings which Joe watched with 
absorbed interest. The jumper-knitting young 
ladies opposite the soldier also lit cigarettes. 
Little Joe sneezed, but continued to stare steadily 
at the smoke. He sat comparatively still for 
about a quarter of an hour, and then, quite 
suddenly, fell asleep again. 

Mellory’s cheeks were pale as they had been 
scarlet. Her arms ached. Her back ached. Her 
soul died within her. She felt hopelessly tired 
and incompetent. She was certain that already 
Joe was feeling the loss of that gallant young 
mother who had carried him as though he were a 
flag. The waste and pathos of her death seemed 
to seize Mellory by the throat, and her eyes 


THE JOURNEY 21 

overflowed with all the unshed tears of these 
last bewildering days. 

The land-girl opposite leant forward. “Don’t 
you let any tears fall on that baby,” she enjoined, 
“it’s unlucky. You give him to me till you’ve 
had your cry out. Calves or lambs or little pigs 
or babies, they’re all one to me, and you look 
awfully done up.” 

The land-girl’s weather-beaten face was broad 
and kind. Mellory noted with envy how easily 
this girl held the bundle that, to her, seemed so 
large and unmanageable. 

That any member of the Upton family should 
cry unashamedly in a railway carriage full of 
people seemed incredible. Mellory was quite 
conscious of her own distaste for the proceeding, 
but oh! it was such a blessed relief to cry; to 
feel her hands free to mop her eyes and nose; to 
have her knees free for even a few minutes from 
that warm weight that seemed to grow heavier 
with every mile that the train travelled. 

Suddenly she knew that everyone in the 
carriage was sorry for her and that she didn’t 
resent their pity in the least. On the contrary, 
she was grateful for it. She stopped crying and 
said quite loudly: “His father is dead, and his 
mother died on Wednesday morning, and she 
was only twenty.” 

Then she sank back in her corner, paler than 
ever, and closed her eyes. 

Where was the Upton reticence? 

Tears squeezed through her shut lids as she 
thought of Molly as she was in the munition 


22 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


factory. So tall and strong, with bright bobbed 
hair and a face like Du Maurier’s Trilby. So 
invincibly good-tempered always. So proud of 
her “boy.” Mellory had seen him once when he 
came on leave. A great silent giant of a man, 
with the profile of a Roman Emperor on a coin. 

Little Joe slept peacefully in the land-girl’s 
sheltering arms. Her fellow passengers spoke 
low to one another, but no one seemed to notice 
Mellory. 

Battered, bruised, and rebellious, her mind was 
incapable of any thought save a vague resent¬ 
ment against the seemingly senseless cruelty that 
snatched away the young and strong and useful, 
leaving the old and tired. What about Molly 
and her husband?—were they, too, unhappy and 
embittered? 

Into her muddled consciousness, soothing as a 
cool hand laid on an aching head, slid the words: 
“In the sight of the unwise they seem to die, 
and their departure is taken for misery, and their 
going from us to be utter destruction, but they 
are at peace.” 

The train swayed in its gathering speed. The 
peppermint lady fell against Mellory and re¬ 
mained leaning heavily on her shoulder. 

Mellory opened her eyes and looked about her. 
Everybody in the carriage seemed to be dozing 
except the land-girl, who, with the wisdom of 
wind-swept spaces in her quiet gaze, watched the 
flying landscape. 

How easily she nursed little Joe. How com¬ 
fortable they both looked. 

Mellory touched her. “It is so good of you to 


THE JOURNEY 23 

have held him for me. Shall I take him now? 
I won't be silly any more." 

The land-girl looked at her, but didn't move. 
“He's very well where he is," she said tranquilly. 
“You go and wash your face, for you're all over 
smudges." 


IV 


THATCHES 

On Saturday morning, after a broken night 
with a very restless baby, she was conscious of 
acute tension in the domestic atmosphere. She 
had been too tired the night before to be very 
observant; but even then she had felt that neither 
Eileen nor Doris was particularly forthcoming in 
the matter of welcome or of help. Even the 
animals seemed to share in the general indiffer¬ 
ence. Dinah, the West Highland puppy, was 
evidently hurt and puzzled by the baby’s 
usurpation of a lap that she looked upon as her 
own special property, and Dundee, the splendid 
yellow Persian cat, sat aloof in a corner looking 
loftily disgusted at the row Joe made while he 
was being undressed. 

Doris, the cook, never appeared at all, and 
Mellory felt that it was rather unkind of Doris, 
seeing that she had a baby of her own. She had 
“got into trouble when she was on the land,” and 
Mellory had taken her to give her a fresh start. 
The girl’s mother, of course, took care of the 
baby. Mellory had been chilled once or twice 
by the scant interest Doris appeared to take in 
her own baby, but charitably concluded it was 
shyness. 

Yes; surely Doris, at all events, would be kind 

24 


THATCHES 


25 


about little Joe. Mellory had explained in her 
letter that she would get a nurse for him as soon 
as possible. 

It was wages day. She was always meticu¬ 
lously punctual in her payments, and Eileen had 
laid their insurance cards ready for her on the 
breakfast table. After breakfast she stuck on 
the stamps and rang the bell. 

They came together. 

“Please, ’m,” Eileen announced, “we both wish 
to leave.” 

Doris took up the tale with the announcement: 
“We don’t neither of us wish to be in a situation 
where there’s childring.” 

“An’ where there’s a nurse there’s always 
trouble,” Eileen continued, “so we wish to go 
as soon as possible.” 

“Certainly,” Mellory answered, with an alac¬ 
rity that surprised them, “but you must give me 
time to find substitutes. I’ll do my best to 
release you at the earliest possible moment. In 
the meantime I expect you to do your best dur¬ 
ing such time as you are with me.” 

“I won’t undertake the baby, ’m,” Eileen said 
firmly. “I wasn’t engaged to do it.” 

“I don’t ask you to ‘undertake’ the baby, but 
I do expect you to help me till I have found 
a nurse for him.” 

No answer. 

The maids took up their money. Eileen dis¬ 
appeared and Doris, clearing the table with 
incredible speed, followed her. 

Mellory had laid little Joe on a thick rug in 


26 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 

front of the fire, with pillows all round him to 
keep off draughts. He was unpacked, and a pair 
of long pink legs waved joyously. She went and 
knelt by him with a lump in her throat, and a 
humiliating sense of defeat and disappointment. 
She had been kind to these girls; patient with 
their limitations; sympathetic in the matter of 
their constant outings; an easy mistress, and she 
had hoped they liked her. 

It hurt so not to be liked. 

The sun shone into the dining-room. Gay 
motes danced on the ceiling. Little Joe had been 
watching them with absorbed interest, but as 
Mellory knelt down beside him he turned his 
large blue baby eyes upon her face with a long, 
searching gaze. 

Suddenly he dimpled into a broad, boyish, 
gleeful smile, as who should say: “A bit stuffy 
about me, ain’t they?” 

She snatched him up in her arms and covered 
his face with kisses. 

“My precious! My treasure! What does it 
matter how cross they are if we’ve got each 
other?” 

She got his bath ready herself. No offer of 
help from Eileen. By the time Joe’s toilet was 
finished Mellory’s hair was wet with perspiration, 
her skirt was soaked by his vigorous splashings, 
her cheeks were scarlet, and her knees were shak¬ 
ing to such an extent that she was almost afraid 
to carry him to his cot. Half a dozen times it 
seemed to her he had been within a hair’s- 
breadth of flinging himself out of her hands alto¬ 
gether. He was very strong, and when he was 


THATCHES 


27 


taken out of the bath, which he liked, he roared 
till his tired nurse felt sure that she must in 
some way have hurt him; and Dinah, thor¬ 
oughly scandalised, added to the uproar by 
barking. 

With shaking hands Mellory prepared Joe’s 
bottle; and not until, with a final yell that 
finished in a cross between a snarl and a choke 
as he settled to his meal, was there a moment’s 
silence. 

When it came she almost fell into a chair. 
For quite three minutes she lay back with closed 
eyes. 

Then she remembered that Nurse Angela had 
told her he ought to have his outdoor things on 
and be put to sleep in his pram, so that he could 
be taken out without waking him. And here he 
was in his cot in her bedroom, with everything in 
the greatest confusion. 

Dared she rouse him up to put on a hat and 
pelisse, and those woolly arrangements like 
Jodhpore breeches with feet, that required such 
discreet management? 

Could she push that heavy pram up the drive 
again once she had got it down the hill? 

Would her legs carry her? 

Gentle little Dinah had jumped upon her knee 
and lay curled there. 

Oh, the blessed quiet! 

Not a sound save a systematic sucking and 
smacking from the cot. It would be unkind to 
disturb Dinah just yet. She had really had no 
time to take any notice of Dinah since she got 
back. 


28 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


When little Joe woke ... 

If little Joe woke . . . then they might think 

about going out. 

Mellory wisely decided to “let sleeping dogs 
lie.” 

Joe was kind enough to sleep till nearly lunch¬ 
time, which, happily, coincided with his next 
meal. 

She dealt with her letters, which had accumu¬ 
lated during her absence, and, as briefly as 
possible, she informed her eldest sister, her eldest 
brother, and her lawyer, of the new responsibili¬ 
ties she had undertaken, reflecting happily that 
she needn’t expect any answers before Tuesday. 

She also wrote to three registry offices and 
several friends as to possible servants. 

After lunch she dressed little Joe, who was 
fairly amenable during this process; put him in 
his pram, and wheeled him up and down in front 
of the house on the sunny terrace looking right 
across the Severn Valley, where the river flowed 
through the once beautiful cathedral town. 
There it lay, widespread and busy, a delicate 
mist veiling its ugly slate roofs. While above the 
mist, sharp and clear against the blue-grey sky, 
the tower of the cathedral, lovely in its slender 
strength, dominated the setting of green lawns 
and old, unspoiled houses in the surrounding 
close. Showery in the morning, it had cleared 
since lunch, and in the thin sunshine the whole 
landscape seemed drawn close, picked out in 
delicate definite drawing like a picture by 
Memling. 

Presently Joe fell asleep. It was warm and 


THATCHES 


29 


sheltered on the terrace, and Mellory left him 
just outside the drawing-room window that 
opened like a door, while she sat inside writing 
more letters. 

When it clouded over she wheeled him into the 
room beside her, and he promptly woke. 

She took him up, divested him of his outdoor 
garments and the hat that made him look like 
the Unnecessary Infant in the “New History of 
Sandford and Merton/’ and played with him for 
half an hour, showing him Dinah and the stately 
Dundee till he grew cross and sleepy. It wasn’t 
time for a bottle yet, so she put him in his pram 
and wheeled him about the room till he fell 
asleep again. 

Then she, too, lay down on the sofa, “just 
till tea-time,” and woke with a start to see two 
pink hands semaphoring from the pram, and an 
indignant voice proclaiming that it was more 
than time for a meal. 

It was. 

The clock on the mantelpiece declared it to be 
half-past five. 

Why in the world had Eileen not brought in 
tea? 

She pealed the bell. It seemed to make a most 
unusual clangour in the silent house. 

No answer. 

She rang again. 

By this time Joe was indignantly proclaiming 
to the world at large that he was both hungry 
and angry. 

She took him up and carried him with her into 
the kitchen. 


30 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


It was perfectly tidy. The kettle was singing, 
though the fire was rather low. The tray with 
the afternoon tea-things was on the table, but 
there was no sign of either of the maids. 

Carrying the wailing Joe with her, Mellory 
went to the room the maids shared. Like the 
kitchen, it was quite tidy, and all their personal 
possessions had vanished. 

No yellow tin boxes. 

Not even a bent hairpin on the dressing-table. 
No nightdress bags on the beds. 

It was quite plain what had happened. 

The maids had gone. 

Mellory and little Joe were alone in the house, 
and already it was Saturday evening. 

What was to be done? 

The first thing was to feed Joe. 

That done, she decided that she must either 
go to the village, taking Joe with her, and get 
someone to come for over Sunday; or, perhaps, 
if she went down the drive to the gate she could 
send a note to the charwoman by any kindly 
passer-by going in that direction. 

Hastily she wrote the note. 

It wasn’t dark yet. If she hurried she might 
get hold of someone. 

In her mother’s bedroom an engraving had 
always hung, of a picture by Millais, called “The 
Reprieve”; and she suddenly remembered how 
the woman in it carried quite a big child in a 
shawl draped like a sling. 

Again she dressed Joe, who, rested and re¬ 
freshed, was quite good-tempered under the 
process. She found a soft chuddah shawl, wound 


THATCHES 31 

it round her, and slung him in it like the woman’s 
baby in the picture. 

Yes, it made it much easier to carry him, but 
she had forgotten her own hat. She couldn’t put 
it on properly without undoing little Joe. Never 
mind, she had plenty of hair. She’d go without. 

A red sunset shone through the trees. The air 
was fresh and cold. Little Joe’s nose was pink, 
but his eyes were bright and he squirmed and 
struggled gleefully in the enveloping shawl. He 
evidently felt there was something unusual and 
exciting in the expedition, and like a true sports¬ 
man, was prepared to enjoy himself. 

They waited just outside the drive gate. Two 
motors and three people on foot passed, all going 
in the wrong direction. Mellory was too timid 
to ask any of them to turn back. Perhaps she’d 
have to go herself. After all, it was only half a 
mile. But could she carry the baby so far? 

She would wait for a few minutes longer. 
Surely, soon, someone would pass who was going 
towards the village. 

She was well aware that such domestic up¬ 
heavals as levanting servants were quite common 
in these times; but such unseemly misfortunes 
never happened to the Uptons; and hitherto she 
had felt only a rather scornful pity when told of 
similar disasters in the experience of her friends; 
and a secret conviction that in all such cases 
there must be “faults on both sides.” 

Why had she let Paine go to Aunt Helena? 
Paine would have helped her. Paine, her 
mother’s trusted maid ever since Mellory had 
first come out. But Aunt Helena was old. Ten 


32 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


years younger than her mother, it is true, but still 
old; and her maid, older than herself, had had 
to retire with bad neuritis in her arm. Servants 
like Paine were so hard to come by. Mellory 
felt it would be selfish to keep her. She must do 
things for herself. She had done everything for 
herself while she was in the munition colony. 
All the same, she missed Paine’s ministrations 
unspeakably. These girls could never have got 
their luggage away so secretly if Paine had been 
there to look after them. 

“I don’t like leaving you, Miss Mellory, with 
these young servants. I don’t feel any confidence 
in them. They’re not the class of servant we’ve 
been used to.” 

That was what Paine said just as she was 
leaving. 

Little Joe struggled and whimpered. He didn’t 
like this standing. The red sunset was fading, 
and the wind was getting up. 

At last a man on a bicycle came in sight, riding 
towards the village; an elderly man, riding care¬ 
fully. 

Mellory walked out into the road. 

“Please,” she said loudly, “could you listen 
a minute?” 

Looking surprised, the man dismounted and 
lifted his hat. 

Thank heaven, a gentleman, and he had a kind 
face. 

He gazed perplexedly at this small bare-headed 
lady carrying the baby. She looked so extraor¬ 
dinarily tired, poor thing, and as if it wouldn’t 
take much to make her cry. 


THATCHES 


33 


“Pm in a dreadful fix,” she began abruptly. 
“My servants have run away and I’m all alone 
in the house with baby. W—could you—would 
it be troubling you very much to take this note 
to the cottage next the post office? A nice 
woman lives there who works for us twice a week, 
and perhaps she’d come or send me somebody.” 

“But of course we must find somebody,” the 
man said. “Has the nurse run away, too?” 

“I haven’t got a nurse yet; I haven’t had time 
—that was the trouble. They didn’t like baby— 
wouldn’t do a thing for him.” 

“What a shame!” the man said heartily. “Do 
you live up there?” he asked, pointing up the 
drive. “If so, please let me carry baby up the 
hill for you. It won’t delay your note more than 
a few minutes, and I’m sure it’s far too much 
for you.” 

He wheeled his bicycle inside the gate and set 
it against the hedge. 

“He must be married,” Mellory thought; 
“probably quite used to babies.” Aloud she said: 
“It’s awfully kind of you, but really he’s not so 
very heavy this way.” 

And at that moment little Joe gave a bounce 
that almost overset his nurse. 

“Please,” the man said, and held out his arms. 

Joe went to him like a lamb, and together they 
tramped up the long, steep drive. 

“I know it’s a confession of failure to be left 
like this,” Mellory said, “but truly I don’t think 
I was bad to them; I don’t think they’d have run 
away if it hadn’t been for baby. He only came 


34 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 

yesterday. So you see, I haven’t had time to do 
much.” 

The man looked puzzled. “I wonder if they 
were quite young maids?” 

“Oh, yes; quite young.” 

“It seems to me, lately, that quite young 
women rather dislike children than otherwise, 
especially infants.” 

“It doesn’t do to generalise. This baby’s 
mother was only twenty, and anyone more de¬ 
voted it would have been impossible to find. And 
there was a girl in the train coming down who 
was awfully kind and helpful to me. It just 
depends on the girl.” 

“Was only twenty?” the man repeated. 

“She died on Wednesday.” 

“I can see you’ve been having a hard time.” 

“A sad time, but I’ve got the baby. She gave 
him to me, and it seems so wonderful . . . Here 
we are, and I can’t tell you how much obliged I 
am to you.” 

“Is there nothing more that I can do before I 
take that note? Aren’t coals wanted, or any¬ 
thing?” 

They were, very badly wanted; for it happened 
that the jobbing gardener, who was also supposed 
to fill the boxes morning and evening, had that 
day succumbed to a bad cold, and sent word in 
the morning that he couldn’t come until Monday, 
which, perhaps, clinched the determination of 
Doris and Eileen to leave at once. 

The kitchen scuttle was empty, as Mellory had 
noticed with dismay when she went into the 
kitchen to look for the maids. 


THATCHES 


35 


Thus it came about that before he left the 
stranger filled two coal-boxes, carried them into 
the kitchen and dining-room, and made up both 
fires. 

Then he hurried away. 

Mellory, carrying the baby, had gone with him 
to the door. As she turned back into the hall 
she saw that he had left a visiting-card on the 
table. 

“Mr. John Mill, The Limes, Weybridge, and 
Athenaeum.” 

Her father’s club. Her eldest brother’s club. 
She wondered if he knew either of them. Then 
she remembered that she had never told him her 
name. 

John Mill ran down the steep drive and 
scorched into the village. He found Mrs. Hum- 
pidge without any difficulty—a broad, comfort¬ 
able woman wearing a very clean apron. He 
gave her the note, and at the same time took upon 
himself to explain what had happened. 

“I wonder, sir,” said Mrs. Humpidge, “if you’d 
be so good as to read it for me. I’ve mislaid my 
spectacles and my daughter’s just gone to the 
shop.” 

The note recapitulated John’s news, and added 
a prayer that Mrs. Humpidge would either come 
herself or send someone as soon as possible. 

Mrs. Humpidge shook her head. “I could have 
told her them girls was no good,” she said. 
“They’re no loss. . . . Well, I suppose I must 
oblige her; ’twouldn’t be Christian to leave her 
to manage alone, though what she wants to start 


36 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


a baby for passes me—and she so comfortably 
left an’ all.” 

“An orphan baby,” John suggested severely. 

“Oh, well, as to that,” Mrs. Humpidge said 
easily, “one can’t run about the world collecting 
orphans. They’re thick as sparrers just now.” 

“How soon can you go to the young lady?” 
John asked. 

“Well, not for another hour, any’ow. I must 
wait till my daughter comes back, and then she’ll 
’ave to get someone to come an’ sleep with ’er; 
she won’t be left alone.” 

“I’m sure the young lady would be very glad 
if she went there with you.” 

“Well, we might think of that if Gerty’s willin’, 
but we can’t rush off and leave the ’ouse any’ow.” 

“How long will it take you?” John asked impa¬ 
tiently. “Remember the young lady is all alone.” 

“Not so young as all that comes to,” Mrs. 
Humpidge said cheerfully. “Never see forty 
again, you may depend. I’ll do my best, sir, but 
I can’t be ’ustled. May I ask, are you stopping 
there?” 

“Oh, dear, no!” John said hastily. . . . “Well, 
Mrs. Humpidge, I’m sure you’ll be as quick as 
you can. I’ll go back and tell her you’re coming.” 

John scorched back to the drive gate, shoved 
his bicycle behind the hedge, and started to run 
up the hill. 

She mustn’t be left. Young or middle-aged, 
she mustn’t be left in that isolated house alone. 
She was too trustful. Look how she had let him 
come into the house. He might have been a 
rascal—there were plenty about—and she knew 


THATCHES 


37 


nothing about him; he might have snatched the 
little string of pearls from her neck and frightened 
her dreadfully. 

Somehow he resented Mrs. Humpidge and her 
“not so young as all that.” For him, just then, 
she was simply the Woman with the Baby. An 
emblem. The eternal feminine type that rouses 
the chivalry of all kindly and decent men. Out 
of the twilight she had come, the little slender 
figure with the ruffled hair and the white shawl, 
carrying the baby that seemed so much too big 
for her. The pathos of her gripped him by the 
throat. 

No; most certainly she must not be left alone. 

Meanwhile Mellory sat before the kitchen fire 
with Joe on her knee, feeling very lonely indeed. 
What a nice man! So helpful and simple and 
kind. She liked his clean-shaven, lined face, his 
eyes that, in spite of their straightforward direct 
gaze, looked rather wistful. His thick iron-grey 
hair that had a little kink in it just over the ears. 

There was someone at the door! 

It was John Mill back again with the cheering 
intelligence that Mrs. Humpidge and perhaps her 
daughter were coming within the hour. 

“And I,” he added, “with your permission, will 
stay till they come; for, honestly, I don’t think 
you ought to be left.” 

“I couldn’t think of detaining you,” Mellory 
said shyly. 

“Surely there are some odd jobs I could do. 
Anyway, I could nurse the baby for you, and 
leave your hands free. I’m quite respectable, 


38 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


really; I can give you references. I’m staying 
with the Prescotts only about three miles off. 
Probably you know them.” 

“Won’t it make you very late for dinner? It’s 
after six now.” 

“If you turn me out before Mrs. Humpidge 
comes, I’ll only patrol the house outside like a 
sentry.” 

At this moment the kettle boiled over and he 
dashed to the hearth to lift it. 

“Have you had any tea? I thought not; 
neither have I. Let’s get some.” 


V 


“SHE BROUGHT THE BLESSED SLEEP . . ” 

Mrs. Humpidge was better than her word, for 
before Mellory and John Mill had washed up the 
tea-things she appeared, carrying a bundle, and 
accompanied by Gerty, her daughter. Gerty was 
very smart and vastly genteel, worked in the 
post office at Marlhouse, and only came home 
on Saturday afternoon till Monday morning. It 
was condescending of Gerty to accept this strange 
bed; and, incidentally, to allow her mother to 
work for an outsider when that mother’s whole 
time and thought should have been concentrated 
on making Gerty comfortable. 

Mellory was conscious of the condescension, 
and felt rather afraid of Gerty. She was so stand¬ 
off and superior, with a “say-nothing-to-nobody” 
manner, very chilling to one who was in the 
ignominious position of having been deserted by 
her own servants. 

Yet even in Gerty there was a vulnerable spot, 
and little Joe found it. Secretly, over Mellory’s 
shoulder, he gurgled and grinned at Gerty, and 
she went down like a ninepin. 

“If you’ll give him to me, miss, I’ll mind him 
for you while you show mother what you want 
done. I don’t mind childring when they’re good.” 

89 


40 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


Midnight; and the long, long day had come to 
an end. Mrs. Humpidge and Gerty had been in 
bed these two hours. Little Joe was tucked in 
his cot, apparently quite undecided as to whether 
he intended to sleep or not. There were still the 
ominous stirrings and inarticulate mutterings 
that, as Mellory had already learned, might mean 
most undesirable activity on his part. She had 
brushed and plaited her hair into funny little 
tails. She had said her prayers and earnestly 
besought heaven to send Joe a good night. She 
had lit the night-light under the patent sauce¬ 
pan containing his next meal. She had put out 
the candles and banked up the fire so that it was 
only dimly red. There was nothing to prevent 
her going to bed herself except that she was 
pretty sure that Joe would not allow her to lie 
there for more than a few minutes. 

And she was so tired. 

She was afraid that if she actually lay down 
she might fall asleep too soundly to hear him. 
And he might be lonely and frightened. She was 
sure that babies were often lonely and frightened, 
especially babies who had lost their mothers. 

And she had promised Molly. 

She sat down in a big chair beside the fire. 
She’d give Joe another ten minutes, and then, 
if he didn’t really wake up, she’d go to bed. 

She was never sure afterwards how long she 
sat in that chair, but it didn’t seem long before 
she heard a soft, distinct rap at the front door. 
It didn’t alarm her. It didn’t even surprise her. 
It almost seemed as though she had expected it. 
Not even Dinah had heard it. Dinah, whose 


“SHE BROUGHT THE BLESSED SLEEP” 41 


basket was back in its familiar corner. She 
couldn’t banish Dinah another night, not even 
for little Joe. After all, Dinah was only a baby 
too. 

Taking no candle, for the moon shone in at 
the staircase window where no one had remem¬ 
bered to draw’ down the blind, Mellory went 
swiftly and softly downstairs and opened the 
door. It seemed to open very easily. The chain 
made no noise as she took it off. The locks 
turned at a touch. As the door swung back the 
moon was shining full on the figure of a tall 
woman. So light was it that Mellory was even 
conscious that the woman’s clothes were blue, 
and that she wore a long motor veil turned back 
from a beautiful, kind face. 

“Your little boy”—Molly’s phrase—“is going 
to be restless,” the woman said, “and I’ve come 
to help you, for I’m sure you are very tired.” 

Mellory thought that never before had she 
heard such a musical voice. Peace was in it and 
tenderness, and pity, and understanding. 

She led the way upstairs in perfect silence. As 
she opened the bedroom door the curtains at the 
window were stirred by the wind. Joe was 
already grumbling and waving his arms. 

The lady went to his cot and lifted him out. 
“Now,” she said, “you will go to bed and you will 
sleep. He will be quite happy with me.” 

And she went and sat down in Mellory’s chair 
by the fire. 

Mellory took off her dressing-gown and obe¬ 
diently got into bed. She didn’t understand 
why, but it seemed the only thing to do. 



42 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


She lay back on the pillows and it was as 
though enormous weights were laid upon her eye¬ 
lids to close them. Yet she contrived to open her 
eyes just to look at the group by the fire. 

The lady had laid Joe on her lap. He stretched 
out his legs and waved his arms vigorously, mak¬ 
ing the dear little noises he always made when 
he was pleased. 

Dinah had crept out of her basket and was 
crouched against the lady’s draperies; and some¬ 
how Dundee, too, had got into the room; for he 
was arching his splendid amber back and rubbing 
himself against her knees, as she, stooping for¬ 
ward, stroked him behind the ears with her left 
hand. 

She turned her head. “You see we are all very 
happy. Sleep, you poor, tired Mellory.” 

Mellory closed her eyes. A wonderful sense of 
ease had come upon her—of rest and peace and 
confidence. She seemed to be sinking deep into 
an abyss of blessed assurance that all was well. 

“Mary, pity women!” she whispered. 

Just once more she opened her eyes to look 
at the pretty group by the fire. The light in the 
room was dim, but it seemed to her that round 
the head of the lady, bent so sweetly over little 
Joe—was a soft, relucent radiance. 

“Our Lady”—everybody’s lady. Mother of 
all the little babies born into the world, for love 
of Him Who so loved little children. 

Mellory slept. 

When she awoke a clear dawn made a crooked 
line of light along the edge of the blind. 



“SHE BROUGHT THE BLESSED SLEEP” 43 


She sat up with a start. 

Yes; the warm mound in the middle of the 
cot was there all right, but the chair by the fire 
was untenanted, and the fire was nearly out. 
Dinah was in her basket, and Dundee was not 
in the room. 

It was half-past six. 

The night-light was guttering and little Joe 
had slept right through the night. 

Vision or dream or blessed actuality—what did 
it matter? It had happened, and the sweet 
memory of it was clear in her mind. 


VI 


SUCCOUR 

Sunday, 2nd of March, and little Joe was four 
months old. 

Yesterday the omens had been all for gloom. 
To-day the whole atmosphere of the house 
seemed changed. Mellory was rested and re¬ 
freshed. Dinah frisked about and licked the 
baby’s toes when he was lifted out of his bath, 
which astonished him so much that he forgot to 
cry. Dundee, though dignified, was urbane, and 
came and rubbed himself against Mellory’s knees, 
even though they were occupied by that perplex¬ 
ing noisy bundle. Kindly, common-sensical Mrs. 
Humpidge, while by no means enthusiastic over 
Joe, was not inimical; and, as no woman who 
has borne children can refrain from giving advice 
as to their management, talked straight talk to 
Mellory on the subject of not unduly fussing over 
him; and of the unwisdom shown by rushing to 
lift him from wherever he might happen to be 
the moment he made a sound of any sort. She 
had her own opinion as to the propriety of Miss 
Upton’s adopting a baby at all: but there, the 
thing was done, and although it was no business 
of hers, it was only kind to try and set this mis¬ 
guided spinster’s faltering steps upon the right 
path. 


44 


SUCCOUR 


45 


“What you want now, miss, is a strong, sensi¬ 
ble young nurse who’ll do her own nurseries and 
not put on any airs. I shouldn’t have an old one 
if I was you, else you’ll never be allowed no say 
at all, and you wouldn’t like that, an’ you so took 
up with the baby. Don’t you have no one as’ll 
be a madam. I wouldn’t have her a day over 
thirty if I was you.” 

“Perhaps you know of someone, Mrs. Hum- 
pidge?” Mellory suggested, hopefully. 

“No, miss, I don’t. Girls in these parts’ll do 
anything and work anywhere rather than go into 
service, and from all I can hear, ’tis the same 
everywhere. But still, don’t you be down¬ 
hearted. Girls is to be had if you looks close 
enough and asks all the ladies you know.” 

Gerty’s young man sang in the choir, so she 
went to morning service while Mellory dealt with 
Joe’s elaborate toilet and afterwards wheeled him 
up and down on the terrace till rain drove them 
indoors. After lunch she took him out again. 
He was awake, and for once fairly still, leaning 
back on his pillows and looking out over the 
valley with the solemn inscrutable gaze of in¬ 
fancy. Again it was extraordinarily clear, and 
Garchester looked like a mosaic fitted into the 
bottom of a deep green basin. 

Presently a motor stopped at the drive gate; 
and up the drive, swift and slender and enchant¬ 
ing, came Mrs. Prescott, of Easterhayes. 

“I’ve heard all about it,” she cried, “and I 
think its wonderful of you; and you are a lucky 
woman. Do let me see him. How I envy you 
with a real little baby to nurse!” 


46 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


Mellory glowed. 

So far no one had suggested she was lucky, and 
the last thing anyone seemed to feel was envy of 
her. Yet pretty Mrs. Prescott must know, for 
had she not five children of her own, two of them 
grown up, though she looked like a girl herself? 

“May I have him?” she continued. “Oh! What 
a tall person!” 

Again Mellory had cause to admire the ease 
with which someone else handled little Joe. This 
graceful lady with the sparkling, mobile face, 
unlined and delicately tinted; with bright brown 
eyes and pretty hair that never seemed wispy 
however windy it was; this fragile-looking sym¬ 
phony in soft browns lifted little Joe out of his 
pram and bore him jauntily as though he were 
a bouquet. 

“Please come in,” Mellory said shyly. 

“Well, just for a minute. Will he mind if I 
interrupt his walk?” 

As they came into the hall Mrs. Humpidge, 
neat in good black dress and vast, enveloping 
apron, met them and relieved Mrs. Prescott of 
the baby, carrying him away. 

“Glad you’ve got her,” Mrs. Prescott said. 
“She’s a decent old soul, and a lot better than 
nothing, but what I came about is this—John 
Mill told me about those horrid maids. Have 
you got a nurse? Have you anybody in view?” 

Mellory shook her head ruefully. “I’ve had 
no time and am very vague as to where I should 
apply. Can you advise me?” 

“I believe I know the very girl for you if you 
don’t mind a girl—she’s twenty-two—not a bit 


SUCCOUR 47 

smart, and not trained except in my nursery, and 
she left us eighteen months ago.” 

“What has she been doing since?” 

“First she went to help an aunt who had a 
shop in Cricklewood; but she didn’t get on with 
the aunt, and she took a place there as house¬ 
maid to three old ladies. Dreadful people; poor 
things, I dare say they were very poor, but they 
were nearly the death of this child. She was 
literally starved and left under a cloud at last, 
for they said she pilfered—food—and I dare say 
she did. She came home dreadfully anaemic. 
She looks like a ghost now. . . .” 

“Is she quite healthy?” Mellory asked. “You 
see, it would never do for baby if she’s . . 

“I believe she’s perfectly healthy, but still 
anaemic from malnutrition. That’s why I want 
to get her into a nice place where she’ll be out of 
doors a lot. She ought never to have left the 
nursery, for she has a gift with babies and little 
children—she’s naturally maternal. She’s an odd 
little thing in lots of ways, but her heart’s full 
of pity, and it makes her very gentle with any¬ 
thing that’s helpless. You can absolutely trust 
her to be careful and kind.” 

“Why did she leave you?” 

“By her own wish, or rather her people’s wish 
to go to this aunt. I think they thought it would 
be a rise in life for her, but the girl hated it. She 
was like a linnet in a cage. She’s the eldest of 
nine, and was always her mother’s right hand.” 

“What are her people?” 

“Her father’s one of my husband’s carters. 
Generations of them have been in our village, 


48 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


decent labouring folk. I don’t want to force her 
upon you, but if you’d try her I don’t believe 
you’d ever regret it. Will you?” 

“I will certainly try her if you think I can 
really trust her with baby.” 

“I’m certain you can. She understands babies, 
and that’s worth any amount of uniforms and 
certificates. My Billy adored her, and old Nannie 
was very jealous, and no doubt extremely nasty 
to her, which probably accounted for the Crikle- 
wood affair. 

“When could she come?” 

“I’ll tell her to come to-morrow.” 

“Can she sew?” 

“From what I remember, her sewing’s rather 
impressionistic, but I’m sure she’d try.” 

“And wages? What ought I to give her?” 

“Give her thirty to start with, and raise her a 
pound or two if she does well. She can’t take 
less than that, for she helps her mother; always 
has since she first went out.” 

“She sounds nice, and I’m ever so grateful to 
you.” 

“Oh, there’s one slight shock for you. She 
won’t, as she puts it, ‘be called out of her name,’ 
and her name’s Margot.” 

“It might have been Daphne or Heartsease,” 
Mellory murmured. 

“Pullin’s her surname, but she won’t be called 
by that. And she’s chapel—I’m not quite sure 
which brand.” 

“I never interfere with people’s religions.” 

Mrs. Prescott looked at Mellory with amused, 


SUCCOUR 49 

kind eyes. “I believe she’ll suit you. She’s not 
commonplace.” 

“But I am, I’m afraid,” Mellory said. “Please, 
you don’t think my maids ran away because they 
didn’t get enough to eat, do you? For truly they 
had as much as they liked—nothing is ever 
locked up.” 

“That’s just it. Where Margot was, everything 
was locked up . . . and when the girls got the 
chance to eat anything they took it. . . . She’ll 
probably tell you about it herself. It’s really 
rather funny, only it’s pathetic, too; but you 
mustn’t imagine the girl’s not honest. She’s as 
honest as I am—probably more so—I know I’d 
take things to eat if everything was kept from 
me and I was hungry. . . .” 

The clock struck four. 

“Gracious! I must fly! I’ll see her to-night. 
Are you on the telephone? Good; I’ll ring you 
up about nine o’clock. I’ll go in and see her on 
my way home. No; don’t come with me. I must 
race down the drive. I am late.” 

She generally was. Her engagements were so 
multifarious that one was always treading on 
the heels of the next, and she was late for all of 
them. But when she did blow in, it was like a 
south-west wind over a bed of blossoming 
violets; and the most aggrieved and freezing 
committee thawed to forgiveness and geniality 
in a comparatively short time. For one thing, 
they couldn’t get on without her. She possessed 
so much driving force and was so keenly inter¬ 
ested in all her activities. Moreover, she believed 
in them all. She kept an open mind and had 


50 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


a warm heart for anything new; she was even 
sympathetic towards that youthful product of 
the war, the twentieth-century girl, and she 
really could, occasionally, influence her. Partly 
because she was herself so modern and efficient, 
but mostly because she was sympathetic and 
firmly believed in the co-operation of the sexes. 
Mellory had only met her twice, but no one 
could live in Little Hayes without hearing a 
good deal about Mrs. Prescott of Easterhayes. 
She was an ever-recurring nine days’ wonder 
to the country-side, and a fruitful cause of 
censure which generally ended in a grudging 
sort of admiration, for she did “get things 
done.” 

When she had watched her out of sight 
Mellory shut the door a little sorrowful, a little 
disappointed. It was luck to have heard of a 
nurse for Joe, but she never had found a moment 
to ask Mrs. Prescott about that nice man; and 
she would like to have known something more 
about him. When you’ve been to the coal cellar, 
and had tea in the kitchen, and washed up the 
tea-things with a man you never saw before, you 
needs must set him in rather a different niche 
from other people. Although you might not even 
know his name, you couldn’t think of him as just 
an ordinary visitor. He would always be differ¬ 
ent somehow. She wondered if his wife was 
staying at Easterhayes. Perhaps he would ask 
her to call. To be sure, he had never mentioned 
a wife; but then, she reflected rather shame¬ 
facedly, he had never talked about himself at all, 
and she had told him such a lot about herself. 


SUCCOUR 


51 


Well, it was no use worrying over that—probably 
she would never see him again—but she was 
sorry. She would like to have thanked him, for 
it was to him that she owed Mrs. Prescott’s visit 
this afternoon and this Margot that was coming. 

Anyway, Mrs. Humpidge couldn’t disapprove 
of Margot. She was young enough, and it was 
to be hoped she would not turn out “a madam.” 

At half-past nine the telephone bell rang. 
“Yes; it is Miss Upton. Yes, she will—oh, that’s 
great! What? Won’t be called what? Must be 
called Margot? Oh, all right, so she shall. . . „ 
It is good of you. Good-night.” 


VII 


MARGOT 

Joe, furiously resentful at the weary labour of 
getting dressed for the day, was making the 
welkin ring with his remonstrance. Margot heard 
him as she wheeled her bicycle (with an expand¬ 
ing basket strapped on the carrier) up the drive 
at Thatches. And when Mrs. Humpidge opened 
the side door his cries rushed out at her like a 
repelling force. 

“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “Whatever 
are they doing to that baby?” 

“It’s Miss Upton,” Mrs. Humpidge explained. 
“She’s nervous and the little brat knows it; but 
I don’t altogether blame ’im. She takes that long 
to dress ’im, the pore child’s quite wore out.” 

Margot clicked her tongue against the roof of 
her mouth. “He don’t sound tired, anyway. 
What does she do with him next?” 

“You’d best go up and see for yourself. She 
needs summun badly—that she do.” 

As they ascended the stairs the noise waxed 
louder. On the way Margot divested herself of 
hat and coat, handed them to Mrs. Humpidge, 
drew a flannel apron from the coat pocket, and 
tied it on as they reached Mellory’s bedroom 
door. 

Mrs. Humpidge opened it, announcing, “The 

52 


MARGOT 


53 


young person, miss,” and hurried downstairs to 
the comparative quiet of the kitchen. 

Mellory, sitting with her back to the door, 
flushed, tremulous, and really frightened at Joe’s 
outcries, heard nothing, and started violently 
when a figure appeared at her side, the half- 
dressed baby was gently lifted off her knee, and 
a soothing voice said: “There, there, was he a 
cross little boy wot didn’t like to be dressed? Just 
a minute, miss. He’s got wind, poor lamb.” 

The yells died down to a hiccoughing sob, and 
Mellory looked up to see that the new nurse had 
in some mysterious fashion draped little Joe 
across her shoulder and under her chin and was 
gently patting him on the back. One of his bare 
pink arms was round her neck, and he had caught 
hold of the lobe of her ear with a tiny crumpled 
hand. Tears hung on his lashes, and he looked 
a heartrendingly pathetic, petticoated bundle of 
misery. Margot swayed her body to and fro, 
patting him and murmuring: 

“Hiccough and thrive, stretch out and grow, 

Be the clock fast or be the clock slow.” 

A small, thin girl, no bigger than Mellory her¬ 
self, with a square, determined face the colour 
of old ivory; thick, fuzzy, fawn-coloured hair 
swept straight back; and wide-set, quiet grey 
eyes. 

“Shall I finish him for you, miss?” she asked, 
“you look a bit tired.” 

Humiliated and sore at heart, ashamed that she 
should make such a poor figure before the new 


54 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


nurse, Mellory rose to give Margot her seat. She 
stumbled, and knocked the box of violet powder 
off the little table at her elbow on to the hearth¬ 
rug, where it rose like clouds of incense into the 
air. Dinah dashed forward and started helpfully 
to lick up the mess, but it was too dry for Dinah, 
and she sneezed. Little Joe also sneezed, but 
Margot exclaimed admiringly: “See the pretty 
powder,” then dipped her finger in it, and made 
a smudge on Joe’s bare knee, which interested 
him so much that his frock was over his head 
and the semaphoring arms through the sleeves of 
it and his cardigan, before he realised what had 
happened. 

Oh, dear me, this girl was quick! Her hands 
didn’t tremble or fumble. 

“I shouldn’t bother him with a pelisse if he’s 
only going in the garden,” she said, more as if 
she was talking to herself than to Mellory. “A 
nice warm shawl and a hot bottle at his feet and 
plenty over him and he’ll be asleep in two twos. 
Does he wear a hat? Lots of babies don’t, and 
it’s good for the hair.” As she spoke she was 
brushing Joe’s soft brown hair straight up. 
“Never mind the powder, miss, I’ll clear up 
when I’ve got him settled off. Is his bottle 
ready?” 

Mellory flew to get it. 

Margot took it from her and looked at it dis¬ 
approvingly. “A small meal for such a big baby,” 
6he remarked. “Is it little and often for him?” 

“Every four hours.” 

“Then he’s not having enough,” she said 
decidedly. “That’s why he’s so thin and fretty. 


MARGOT 55 

With your permission, miss, well try him with a 
drop more next time.” 

Enviously Mellory watched the deft efficiency 
with which Joe was fed, wrapped up, carried 
downstairs, and packed into his pram and 
shielded from the wind with the hood. 

Margot went back to clear up, and Mellory 
stood gazing at little Joe. 

With closed eyes and long lashes resting on his 
pink cheeks, with his funny hair still fluffed out 
all over his head, and pursed lips sucking vigor¬ 
ously, he looked so adorable that she stooped over 
him and kissed him. 

He opened his eyes, stared at her gravely for a 
minute, and then smiled. 

“Treasure,” she whispered, “I know I'm slow 
and clumsy, but you're going to love me, aren't 
you?” 




PART II 


THE WORLD 











I 


CYNTHIA 

Mellory’s letters had been posted by Eileen 
before she and Doris took flight; and as the 
family was—most of it—in London, Mellory was 
sustained by the belief that she was safe from 
expostulation, at all events till Tuesday morning. 
Unless, indeed, they put through a trunk call; 
but they’d hardly do that just to scold her. She 
had not reckoned, however, upon the energy of 
her youngest sister, Lady Leaf; and just as she 
was finishing her lunch a telegram arrived: 

“Please send motor to meet 6.30 train at Marie- 
house. Must see you. —Cynthia.” 

It was the first meal since her own return with¬ 
out the presence of little Joe, either on her lap 
or on the hearth-rug, or in his cot beside her. She 
was feeling rather competent and complacent, for 
Margot’s presence had already given her time 
that very morning to think out plans as to which 
rooms should be nurseries, and she had tele¬ 
phoned to a shop in Garchester to send men next 
day to change the furniture. 

She had decided on her mother’s room for little 
Joe’s day nursery, with the big dressing-room that 
opened out of it for night. They both faced south 
and had lovely views over the valley. 

With the cheese came Cynthia’s telegram, and 

59 


60 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


she began to feel nervous in a new way. So far 
she had been too much agitated and occupied and 
generally driven by little Joe himself, she hadn’t 
found time to consider seriously the effect her 
precipitate action might have upon her family, 
and Cynthia’s telegram brought all sorts of dis¬ 
quieting possibilities home to her. 

Cynthia must indeed be upset to come rushing 
off like that, for Mellory hadn’t written to 
Cynthia—only to Florence and Anthony. She 
must have heard about it from one of them that 
very morning. And what did Cynthia imagine 
she could do? 

How Mellory blessed her father in that when 
he died in 1913 he had, to the great surprise of 
the family, left Mellory her share (and rather 
more than her share, some of them thought) 
independently of her mother or the rest of the 
family; absolutely at her own discretion, except 
that she could not, without the sanction and 
approval of her trustees, change her investments, 
or dissipate her capital, during her life-time. 
She was quite unfettered as to its disposal at her 
death. 

“My daughter Mellory,” he said to the lawyer 
who drew up his will for him, “has devoted the 
best years of her life to us, and I’m going to make 
sure that when we are dead she is not at the beck 
and call, financially, of anybody else.” 

After all, what could they do? However much 
they disapproved, they couldn’t cut off supplies. 

But what would Mrs. Humpidge say? 

And how would Cynthia like it when she found 
there were no proper servants? 


CYNTHIA 


61 


Cynthia was not accustomed to rough it. For 
the matter of that, neither was Mellory, but 
Cynthia—so Mellory put it to herself—was less 
adaptable, and more particular. And when one 
was as beautiful as Cynthia there was naturally 
a good deal of pomp and circumstance demanded 
from one’s surroundings. For instance, Cynthia, 
assisted by a thoroughly competent maid, took 
even longer to dress herself than Mellory took to 
dress little Joe; and evidently she wasn’t bring¬ 
ing her maid. That was a comfort, anyhow, and 
indicated a short stay. 

Surely Joe was extraordinarily quiet. Since 
this Margot person came Mellory had hardly 
seen him. Where could he be? Had Margot 
got him in the kitchen? That would never do. 
She rang the bell; and directly she had done it 
had qualms. Perhaps Mrs. Humpidge had al¬ 
ready started her dinner and wouldn’t like it; but 
then Margot must have hers. . . . 

Mrs. Humpidge appeared. 

“I only rang,” Mellory said apologetically, “to 
say that I can keep baby while Margot has her 
dinner.” 

“ ’E’s asleep, miss, in his pram, in the sun out¬ 
side the kitching window, an’ she’ve got it open, 
and very cold it is, but ’e’d better stop there till 
’e wakes. Never wake a baby for any purpose 
whatsoever if you take my advice.” And Mrs. 
Humpidge turned to go. 

“Just a moment, Mrs. Humpidge—the tele¬ 
gram—it’s from my sister, Lady Leaf, and she’s 
coming this evening ... to help us,” she added, 
as a possibly cheering afterthought. 


62 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“Very good, miss. Will she have your ma’s 
room?” 

“I think not . . . she’d better have the room 
on the other side of the passage opposite mine. 
I’ll go and get it ready. That’s all, Mrs. Hum- 
pidge; don’t let me interrupt your dinner.” 

Mrs. Humpidge didn’t look at all pleased. 

Mellory longed to go and look at little Joe 
sleeping in the sun; but if he was outside the 
kitchen window they’d see her, and it would seem 
as if she was spying upon them at their dinner, 
so she was flung back in a perfect maelstrom of 
worry as to what Cynthia had to say. Cynthia 
was two years older than Mellory—forty-four— 
and didn’t look a day more than a young thirty. 
As the acknowledged beauty of a quite personable 
family she had always regarded her very con¬ 
siderable attractions as a sacred trust, leaving 
nothing undone in the way of fostering care that 
could either preserve or enhance them. She had 
been married fifteen years, and had no children. 
Her husband, by reason of several unexpected 
deaths, had succeeded to the baronetcy a year 
ago. 

Mellory hung out of an upper window fondly 
looking down upon the hood of the pram. She 
could see nothing of the baby inside, but it com¬ 
forted her, all the same. Presently, as though 
conscious of her gaze, the baby stirred, and the 
springs bent under his weight. She was just 
about to rush downstairs, maids or no maids, 
when a hand was thrust through the kitchen win¬ 
dow, the perambulator gently moved to and fro, 
and all was quiet again. For some minutes 


CYNTHIA 


63 


Mellory continued to lean out and watch in the 
hope that he would really wake up, but nothing 
happened, and she went to collect sheets and 
towels for Cynthia’s room to the rhythm of the 
reiterated and rather apprehensive question: 
“What would Cynthia say?” 

When she arrived it seemed she had decided to 
say nothing ... at first. Beautiful in her heavy 
furs with their faint scent of violets, delightful 
and affectionate, she brushed aside the question 
of domestic difficulties, declared herself quite able 
to manage, and appeared upon the stroke of eight 
—the gong was not sounded for fear of disturbing 
Joe, who might be settling off—in a perfect “little 
dress” of plain black, with an ermine stole over 
her graceful shoulders. 

She praised the plain dinner—Mrs. Humpidge 
was a sound but quite unimaginative cook—dis¬ 
cussed the newest books and plays, gave Mellory 
the family gossip, and never so much as men¬ 
tioned the cause of her sudden visit, who must 
certainly have been audible while she was chang¬ 
ing for dinner. 

But after dinner, when Mellory had returned 
from a furtive visit to her own room, where 
Margot was keeping guard beside the now sleep¬ 
ing Joe; when they were seated on either side of 
the wood fire, and Dundee, with that determina¬ 
tion, always shown by the best kinds of cat, to 
sample a fresh lap, had curled himself up on 
Cynthia’s—she opened fire. 

“Now, what’s all this about a baby? Of course, 
I heard it screaming, and if it’s as ugly as its 


64 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


cry—it must be rather dreadful. What possessed 
you, Mellory?” 

“What have you been told, and by whom?” 
Mellory asked, to gain time. 

“Florence rang me up before I was out of bed 
and read me your letter, and Anthony rang up 
a little later. What are you going to do with it? 
You can't mean to keep it.” 

“I do mean to keep him. I must. I promised 
his mother.” 

“That’s ridiculous. She had no right to foist 
a child upon you in an emotional moment like 
that—someone we never even heard of. There 
were seventy munition girls in that hostel of 
yours—do you mean to say that if all of them 
chose to have babies and send for you and go 
and die, that you’d take the lot? Dr. Barnardo 
isn’t in it with you.” 

“There’s no question of the others. I was par¬ 
ticularly fond of this girl—I liked them all, but 
I knew her best. She was very kind to me when 
I first went, and we got intimate somehow. She 
told me a lot about herself. She was so gay and 
young, and so much in love.” 

“That’s just it—a common Australian soldier 
with a Whitechapel accent—don’t you believe in 
heredity at all? How do you know what this 
child will turn out?” 

“I do believe in heredity,” Mellory said slowly, 
“but I also believe in environment. Besides, they 
were both healthy, cheerful, handsome young 
people, who loved each other dearly. Why 
shouldn’t he grow into a nice child?” 


CYNTHIA 65 

“I don’t want to be a snob, but . . . Have you 
any idea how she met her husband?” 

“Oh, dear, yes; she told me all about it. He 
spoke to her in the street ... he was lonely, and 
she saw at once, she said, that he was straight. 
She’d had a queer upbringing by an old uncle and 
aunt who were violent socialists and pacifists and 
freethinkers; no soldier would have been allowed 
inside their doors. I remember one of the things 
she said was, ‘When he said snip I’d have been a 
fool not to say snap, for he was a man every 
inch of him.’ ” 

“I really can’t understand you, Mellory. You 
seem to have changed all your ideas since you 
lived among these munition girls. ‘Spoke to her 
in the street’—I bet she spoke to him!” 

“Perhaps she did. I spoke to a man I’d never 
seen before, in the road, the day before yester¬ 
day.” 

“Oh, you—that’s quite different,” Cynthia said 
scornfully. “No one would think anything about 
you: but if I spoke to an unknown man in the 
street it would probably be in the Daily Rescript 
next day with a snapshot and ‘Titled lady talks 
to total stranger’—you know the sort of thing. I 
simply can’t make you out. But have you con¬ 
sidered this?—that a baby is a luxury, and we 
can none of us afford luxuries with income tax 
six shillings in the pound—more, alas! for Geof¬ 
frey and me. You’ve no right to do it.” 

“Oh, yes, I have. If I prefer to spend the other 
fourteen shillings that way rather than on other 
things, why shouldn’t I?” 

“You shouldn’t because you ought to consider 


66 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


the family. You’ve got nieces and nephews; if 
you want to throw money about, why not do 
something for them?” 

“They’re all quite well off, with a proper equip¬ 
ment of parents and homes and everything. Joe 
has nobody but me ... ” 

“Joe! Is the creature’s name Joe?” 

“It is; and it seems to suit him somehow; he’s 
such a boyish baby.” 

A muffled knock at the door, and it was opened 
to reveal Margot with the said Joe in her arms, 
wrapped in his eiderdown. “He’s woke up, miss, 
that lively and playful I thought you’d like to 
show him to the lady. I’ll fetch him again di¬ 
rectly you ring.” 

With a dramatic whisk she removed the eider¬ 
down and placed him on Mellory’s knee beside 
Dinah, who welcomed him affectionately. 

Clad in a funny white flannel night-gown with 
a minute blue dressing-gown on top, his hair 
brushed up into a fluffy ridge, he bounced joy¬ 
ously; but as Dinah immediately started to lick 
his bare feet he became absorbed in the operation 
and was suddenly quite still, taking no notice of 
anything else. 

Cynthia gently lifted Dundee from off her lap, 
put him down on her chair, and came and knelt 
by Mellory. She took a deep breath as though 
savouring little Joe, who smelt deliciously of 
clean flannel, violet powder, and the very best 
soap. As she crossed the hearth-rug he noticed 
her; as she knelt beside them he looked at her, 
appraised, and turned on her his broad boyish 


CYNTHIA 67 

smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and 
was so friendly. 

“You dear!” Cynthia exclaimed, “you extraor¬ 
dinary dear!” and she kissed the top of his head 
on the soft, fluffed-up hair. He put out a small 
inquisitive hand, touched her white stole, and in 
another instant was doing his best to pull off one 
of the precious little black tails. Mellory gently 
detached the destructive hand. “Let’s put him 
on the rug,” she said, “and see him kick.” 

She was merciful to her sister. She only kept 
him for ten minutes, and Margot carried him 
away before he had cried or disgraced himself. 
When he had gone they still sat on the rug. 
Cynthia had been so charming with the baby, 
playing “peep-bo” behind her stole, talking de¬ 
lightful nonsense to him, dangling her pearls just 
out of reach of his grabbing little hands; and 
Joe had so evidently appreciated her that Mel¬ 
lory waited almost breathlessly for some word of 
praise from Cynthia—some sympathetic under¬ 
standing, perhaps, of all he had come to mean to 
her, even in these few days. But Cynthia sat 
in dead silence, staring at the fire. For two long 
minutes she sat there, Mellory wistfully watching 
her. If Cynthia would only stand by her with 
the others. . . . 

Suddenly she spoke. “I don’t think I can bear 
it, Mellory; you must give him up.” 

She turned to face her sister. She was evi¬ 
dently in dead earnest. 

Mellory stiffened perceptibly. “What do you 
mean? How can his being here affect you?” 


68 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


Cynthia burst into tears. 

“Why should you,” she sobbed, “have what 
Geoff and I want so desperately? If it had been 
a plain, puny little girl I might have borne it; 
but this! A boy. Such a real boy . . . and we 
haven’t got one. How can you expect me to 
endure it?” 

Mellory put her arm round Cynthia, but the 
mental stiffening was there, strengthened and 
solidified. 

Long ago—nearly forty years ago—there was a 
doll. A rag doll, of a sort no longer obtainable. 
A doll with a flat pink face surrounded by a 
net-cap; a doll with bolster arms and legs, guilt¬ 
less of hands or feet, of white calico stuffed with 
sawdust. A baby doll, dressed in long clothes. 
Someone had given it to Mellory when she was 
two, and it was the pride and joy of her infancy. 
It went to bed with her. It accompanied all her 
drives and walks. It was her adored and insepa¬ 
rable companion. It was called Susan. One day 
Cynthia, who had at least six dolls far more beau¬ 
tiful than Susan, wanted her, and screamed and 
cried because Mellory wouldn’t hand her over for 
five minutes. 

“Be unselfish, Miss Mellory; lend poor Miss 
Cynthia that funny old doll for a little bit,” nurse 
pleaded. “She’ll give it back to you—she’ll soon 
tire of it.” 

Ah! that was it. When Cynthia was tired of 
Susan she would throw her down; and Mellory, 
even then, was convinced that a baby must be 
treated tenderly—even a rag baby. The sturdy 


CYNTHIA 69 

little sister refused to lend her doll even for five 
minutes. 

Cynthia was crying herself sick. 

Her mother tried to arbitrate. She was too 
just to force Mellory to lend the doll, but she 
wanted her to grow up generous and self-sacri¬ 
ficing. People believed in those qualities in the 
early eighties. But the plump little person turned 
a deaf ear to argument or expostulation. She 
refused to be parted from her doll. Even while 
she was being dressed she held it in one hand 
while the other was put through sleeves. Cynthia 
continued to scream, and then father came up to 
the nursery, to find his youngest daughter, dressed 
for their drive, quite composedly carrying her 
doll, unmoved by either the moral suasion of 
mother, nurse, and under-nurse, or by the piteous 
lamentations of her sister. And father had set¬ 
tled the matter with the decision that “Cynthia 
must learn there were some things she could 
not have.” 

Cynthia forgot all about it in ten minutes, but 
Mellory, as she sat on her own hearth-rug with 
her arm around her sister’s shoulders, seemed to 
feel the scratchy net-cap, and smell the sawdust 
as she pressed the beloved rag doll against her 
face. 

“Cynthia dearest,” she said tenderly, “why do 
you cry? You’ve always declared you and Geoff 
didn’t want any children. Even before you were 
married you said so.” 

“We couldn’t afford them then. We weren’t 
like you, rushing into extravagance without any 
thought of the cost. If there had been babies 


70 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


then, we couldn’t have stayed in our darling little 
flat. I couldn’t have gone about with Geoff, and 
he’d have had to go without all sorts of things 
he’d been used to, and he loved to have me with 
him always. He was so proud of me. He couldn’t 
bear the thought of anyone coming between 
us—even a baby. We were only sensible, Mel- 
lory, like heaps of other young people. . . 

“And now?” asked Mellory. 

“Of course, we want a baby now. We’re quite 
comfortably off, and there’s the place in Sussex 
and the house in Wilton Crescent, and it will all 
go to a miserable second cousin in Berwickshire. 
Think of it: we might have had a boy at Eton 
now.” 

“Perhaps you’ll have a baby now you want 
one so.” 

Cynthia drew herself out of Mellory’s embrace 
and turned away her tear-stained, ravaged face. 
“No,” she whispered. “Last week I saw Sir Harry 
Wynter—he’s the great women’s specialist, you 
know—and he says short of a miracle there’s no 
hope. He was very kind, and he said one thing 
that struck me: ‘Nature never forgives, never 
compromises. We hope that God forgives, we 
know that men forgive; but if we flout nature 
she always gets back on us.’ Now do you under¬ 
stand why you must send that baby away?” 

Mellory shook her head. 

“But you must, Mellory, you must. How 
could Geoff and I come here if you have a little 
boy growing up and we have none? You will 
be choosing little suits and gaiters and things— 
you will select his preparatory school and be 


CYNTHIA 


71 


going to his sports and having him taught to 
ride, and coached in cricket in the holidays. And 
hell shout about the garden and run in and out 
of the house making muddy marks everywhere, 
and crumple the chintzes, and leave fives balls in 
the Chelsea cups and batting gloves in the Ming 
bowl in the hall; and bring other little ruffians 
to eat you out of house and home, and you sit¬ 
ting there, so proud and glorious because he’s 
broken the bathroom window with his catapult. 
. . . Oh, Mellory, how can you expect me to 
bear it?” 

4 

Cynthia held her sister with her tragic eyes, 
while Mellory, torn by Cynthia’s real anguish, 
sat pained and silent, and, most of all, astonished 
that Cynthia, generally considered the least 
imaginative of the family, should have conjured 
up visions which so far had never even occurred 
to Mellory, whose powers of prediction had as 
yet hardly dared to soar beyond little Joe’s next 
bottle. 

Side by side, like two children, they sat on the 
rug before the dying fire. Cynthia had stopped 
crying. The ermine stole,, fallen from her 
shoulders, lay on the floor behind her, and Dinah, 
unnoticed and unrebuked, was lying on it. Dun¬ 
dee slept, curled up in Cynthia’s chair. 

Overhead in Mellory’s room Margot was mov¬ 
ing about, singing softly to little Joe. 

Cynthia shivered. “Do you think it fair of 
you, Mellory, to make this house impossible for 
Geoff and me? After all, it was mother’s house, 
and we’re fond of it.” 


72 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“I don't see," Mellory said slowly, “that this 
house can have many associations for any of you. 
Mother had only been in it six months when she 
died. It isn't like the house in Hill Street, where 
we were all brought up. . . ." 

“But you know father left you the furniture— 
mother for her lifetime; you afterwards. All the 
things are here, and the portraits and the 
pictures." 

Mellory said nothing. Before they left the 
big house in Hill Street to come to the country 
the family had not done so badly. Only the 
furniture her mother had specially cared for had 
been brought to Thatches. The smaller things 
to suit the smaller rooms. 

“Listen, Cynthia. I’m ever so sorry it should 
hurt you like that—for me to have little Joe. 
I quite understand it . . . but I can’t break my 
promise to his mother, and I did hope you and 
Geoff would be good to him. . . . Couldn't you 
try to like him? He has so few friends." 

“It’s because I like him that I can’t bear it— 
don’t you see? Besides, it takes you away from 
us all. You’ll never come now when we want 
you. There’ll always be this wretched baby." 

“I could never come when you wanted 
me before. There was always father and 
mother. . . .” 

“That’s just it. Now you have no ties, we 
hoped ... all sort of things. . . . Geoff and I 
wanted you to come with us to Cannes next 
week ... as our guest. I was going to write 
when they roused me with this awful news. . . ." 


CYNTHIA 


73 


The clock struck ten. 

All was silent overhead. “I think,” Mellory 
said, timidly, “that I ought to send Margot to 
bed, and she won’t go, I know, till I come upstairs. 
Will you come? We can talk in my room if we 
don’t speak loud.” 

Cynthia shivered. “I’ll come to bed,” she said, 
“but I know I shan’t sleep, especially if that 
baby’s howling next door. You are hard, Mellory. 
I didn’t think you could be so unsympathetic and 
selfish. I don’t believe you understand a bit.” 

Joe woke up at 1 a. m. and shouted. He was 
implacable. He wanted something, and Mellory 
had no idea what. He was going to shout till 
he got it. She couldn’t know that during the 
previous day he had got back something he was 
used to, something he had been missing badly. 
His mother had talked to him continually; sang 
to him; made interesting little games for him 
in which his own fingers and toes played an 
important part. Moreover, if he was restless 
and uncomfortable she always moved him to 
another position, and Joe loved change. 

Poor Mellory, timid and respectful and des¬ 
perately afraid of hurting him, had no concep¬ 
tion of the variety that he exacted, and had, 
hitherto, received from life, in the shape of 
amusement, constant change of posture, and 
general sprightliness. 

Margot, who adored and understood babies, 
had made him thoroughly happy all day, and 
now, when he woke up suddenly in the night, he 


74 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


expected the same tactful handling: a soft little 
song, perhaps; a turning of pillows and likewise 
of little boys. A brief drama concerning pulpit, 
parson, and people, in which four small dis¬ 
tended fingers and a thumb played important 
parts. A spoonful of water, perhaps, in an 
exciting spoon that glittered and that he was 
allowed to hold afterwards. All, or even one of 
these things, would have contented him, and in a 
few minutes he would have gone to sleep again 
quite placidly. 

As it was, somebody fluttered about his cot 
and patted him. A gentle, timid voice bade him 
“be a good little boy and go to sleepy-bye.” He 
was quite sure she meant kindly by him, but why 
the dickens didn’t the creature do something 
amusing? 

Through his tears he gazed at the ring of light 
thrown on the ceiling by the night-light under 
the patent food-warmer, and the monotony of 
life seared his soul. 

What was the good of patting a fellow when 
a crease in the pillow-case was irritating his ear? 
and the bedclothes were all in a lump to one 
side, where he had kicked them? Why didn’t 
the shadowy figure beside his cot lift him up 
and bump things and shake things and set him 
down again where it was smooth and warm, and 
then sing about a lady who loved a swine? A 
nice soothing tune that was. Or give him a finger 
to hold over the side of his cot; that was com¬ 
forting too. 


CYNTHIA 


75 


What was the good of 'patting a fellow? Joe’s 
soul was filled with anguish at the futility of 
things in general, and he howled, and howled, 
and howled. 

Cynthia woke up next door and sat up in bed. 
What in the world could Mellory be doing to 
that baby? He’d scream himself into a fit if 
someone didn’t interfere. 

Cynthia was capricious and thoroughly spoilt, 
but she was good-natured and she was fond of 
her sister. She must go and help. This constant 
bawling was intolerable. Poor little Mellory! 
Why didn’t she let that pale-faced girl have him 
at night? He’d been quite good with her. 

Cynthia lit a candle; put on her blue and silver 
dressing-gown, tied back her lovely hair, the 
color of polished rosewood, thrust her slender feet 
into blue mules with very high heels, and pattered 
into Mellory’s room, carrying the candle. 

“Whatever’s the matter?” she almost shouted, 
to be heard above the din. “Why don’t you 
give him a bottle or something?” 

“It isn’t time,” Mellory shouted back, shaking 
her head mournfully. “I daren’t; and all the 
books say you oughtn’t to be always lifting a baby 
out of his cradle just because he happens to 
wake up.” 

“Hang the books!” Cynthia said crossly. 
“They’re all written by old maids and snuffy 
bachelors. Here, let me see what I can do. Light 
some more candles and poke the fire; it’s awfully 
cold.” 

Cynthia stooped over the cot and took a firm 
hold of the squirming little body in it. Her long, 


76 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


thick hair fell forward and tickled Joe’s nose. 
She lifted him out, shaking him very gently as 
she did so, and at that moment Mellory knocked 
over the stand of fire-irons with a tremendous 
clatter. 

Joe stopped in the very middle of a yell. 

After all, they were doing their best to enter¬ 
tain him; and one of the creatures, anyway, 
realised that movement of some sort was essen¬ 
tial. He wished the other one would make that 
lovely noise again; but she didn’t; and as the 
one who had got hold of him smelt nice, and 
was walking about, he decided to make the best 
of things. There were now three twinkling lights 
instead of that maddening stationary circle on the 
ceiling, and even the fire had cheered up. 

Cynthia, with Joe in her arms, came and stood 
by it. “Do you know,” she said to him, “that 
you are just a naughty little boy? I don’t believe 
there’s anything the matter with you except 
that as you were awake you hated anyone else 
to sleep. I’ve felt like that myself, but I never 
dared to kick up such a shindy as that—did I, 
Mellory? He’s a bold, bad Joseph,” she con¬ 
tinued, “not a bit like the scripture one. I’m 
certain Mrs. Potiphar would have no trouble with 
him. We’ve got to tire him out—that’s what 
we’ve got to do. Come and dance, Joseph. I 
wish we had a gramophone up here.” 

And Cynthia danced about with Joe in her 
arms till one of her slippers flew off. Mellory 
stood by the fire thinking how lovely she looked; 
and Joe waved his arms and made agreeable 


CYNTHIA 77 

noises to the effect that “rugs and jigs and candle¬ 
lights” were entirely to his liking. 

Suddenly he yawned. 

“Quick!” Cynthia cried, “take him. Put him 
in his cot and rock him hard. I’ve done my bit 
and I’m off.” 

Joe slept; but Mellory lay awake thinking of 
her sister. 

Was Cynthia going to stand by her with the 
family or not? 

They were the two rather belated last of the 
Upton family. There were eight years between 
Cynthia and her sister, Maude Gantillon; and 
their two brothers and Florence Gatcliffe were 
grown-up while the two youngest were still in 
the nursery. Mellory was an aunt when she was 
six. She had always seemed more of an aunt than 
Cynthia, and a great deal more was expected 
of her. She knew very well that the rest of 
the family already regarded Thatches as a con¬ 
venient dumping-ground for youngsters in quar¬ 
antine for, or recovering from, various inevitable 
diseases. Therefore the advent of Joe, who would 
take up two rooms, two of the best rooms, would 
he hotly resented. She was sorry. She loved 
her nieces and nephews; she loved all her family; 
but she felt she could bear their temporary dis¬ 
pleasure with more equanimity if Cynthia and 
Geoff were on her side. She was pretty sure 
Geoff would be. He would understand. She 
believed Cynthia understood, but because Cyn¬ 
thia understood, perhaps too well, she was nervous 
about Cynthia. And yet, she had been adorable 


78 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


to little Joe. Perhaps if she got fond of him . . . 
she would become reconciled to the situation . . . 
yet it was hard on her—Mellory fully granted 
that . . . and no one could be quite sure what 
Cynthia would do. 


II 


THE FAMILY 

The post came while they were at breakfast. 
A large mail for Mellory. 

“Sort out the family,” Cynthia said, “and 
tell me what they say. At least, don’t tell me. 
Hand them over one by one when you’ve read 
them. Then we can both sit in silence and in 
peace. I’m hungry. Take Florence first, it’s such 
a fat envelope. In the meantime you might give 
me the rest that look like servants and people. 
I can’t bear to see you reading letters when there’s 
none for me.” 

“I’m sure you might have all mine,” Mellory 
said. “I know they’ll be unpleasant.” With a 
sigh she opened the fat envelope. 

“64, York Terrace, 
“Regent’s Park, N. W. 

“My dear Mellory: 

“Your letter, so brief and abrupt, and telling 
me so very little, has greatly distressed me. I 
can’t help feeling that you have rushed recklessly 
into responsibilities that you have little realised. 
Responsibilities that cannot fail to be irksome 
when you have discovered what they are. A 

79 


80 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


child (and I should know, having five of my own) 
is not like some art or craft, that can be taken up 
or laid down at will.” [“Quite so,” Mellory agreed, 
thinking of Joe in the night.] “I feel, too, that 
you have been unfairly treated in the way you 
were rushed into it. I have always disapproved 
of death-bed promises. In the first place, the 
person who exacts them is not in a condition to 
think clearly, and the person who promises is not 
normal either. That poor young woman had no 
right to send for you and lay this burden upon 
you when you were doubtless fatigued by the 
sudden journey and upset at finding her so ill. 
Don’t think for a moment that I suggest you 
should turn your back upon the orphan and 
refuse to do anything. Although times are so 
difficult and all our incomes so sadly reduced, I 
quite see that you must do something —but what 
I suggest is that you should place the baby in 
an admirable home I know of for poor little fath¬ 
erless, or worse than fatherless, creatures. They 
are most of them children of the unmarried 
mothers who have become so sadly numerous of 
late years—but I have no doubt that the devoted 
women who run it would take this baby in at 
my request on payment of a quite moderate 
sum per annum. You could visit the home at 
any time (it is aways open to inspection) and 
when he is old enough for education place him 
in some other institution. An institution, my 
dear Mellory, is what would be most suitable for 
that baby. You would then feel you had done al] 
that was required of you, and would be free to 
mingle more frequently with your family than 


THE FAMILY 


81 


has been the case of late years, owing to your 
devotion to our dear parents. A devotion which 
father and mother fully recognised, and, if I may 
say so, fully repaid. Dear little Mellory, don’t 
think me interfering and unsympathetic, but do 
consider carefully before you take the rash step 
of keeping this infant to live with you per¬ 
manently. I, who know your conscientiousness, 
feel that if you do this unwise thing you will be 
more or less lost to the rest of us, and surely your 
own relations should come first. I hope to run 
down and see you quite soon. Let me know if 
I shall write to Miss Bonar—it is such a charming 
home, and the little things are so well and happy. 

“Reginald fully agrees with me in thinking, as 
he says in his terse way, that ‘you have bitten 
off a larger piece than you can chew/ He has 
come across several Americans lately in the city 
and has picked up some of their quaint sayings. 
He feels that you don’t in the least realise the 
tie, the handcuffs you are fixing upon your own 
wrists. If the infant had been a girl, one might 
have considered the possibility, but with a boy 
the situation becomes quite impracticable. Boys 
need firmness and discipline, and you, my dear, 
so often fail to assert yourself as you ought to do. 
Look at the cottage; you’ve been eight months 
at Thatches and not yet have you taken any 
steps about it. Reginald asks about that cottage 
every time I hear from you. Are those people 
still in it? 

“Be sensible, dear Mellory, don’t be obstinate— 
you are sometimes, you know—be guided by those 
who have your welfare sincerely at heart, and 


82 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


write soon to say you realise this to your loving 
sister, 

“Florence” 

Mellory opened Anthony's letter next, while 
Cynthia started on Florence. 

“23, Charterhouse Square, 

“March 3, 1919. “London, E. C. 

“Dear Mellory: 

“Your letter of March 1st was rather a bomb¬ 
shell and makes me anxious about your future. 
Not content with turning the gardener’s cottage 
into a sort of alms-house, you now turn Thatches 
into a creche. What will be your next move, I 
wonder? Had father—as he might have done— 
consulted me when drawing up his will, I would 
have warned him that romantic women whose 
lives have hitherto been sheltered and directed 
almost invariably fall a prey to unknown needy 
ones when they come into money of their own, 
unless such money is safeguarded by sensible 
restrictions. Before you carry out this mad 
scheme of adopting a child, I beg you to con¬ 
sider—as I feel you are in duty bound to do— 
what father’s wishes would have been. Surely 
some sensible arrangement could be made that 
provides for the baby without your being saddled 
with it yourself. I could, I think, either give or 
procure you a nomination for almost any of the 
best charitable institutions, where you could keep 
an eye on the child and even see it from time to 
time as you might wish. I write from the office, 


THE FAMILY 


83 


but Veronica and I talked it over before I left for 
the city this morning, and she agrees with me that 
you little know what you are letting yourself in 
for. Let me know what you decide, and I will 
do all I can to further your wishes. 

“Your affectionate brother, 

“Anthony.” 

Cynthia giggled from time to time while read¬ 
ing Florence’s letter. She looked up as Mellory 
laid Anthony’s on the table. “Now Maude,” 
she said, holding it out, “and do eat something at 
the same time. Your bacon’s stone-cold.” 

“I’ll just read Maude’s. . . .” 


“Norfield, 

“Monday. “Dorking. 

“Mellory, dearest: 

“What is this I hear from Florence? She rang 
me up this morning, and you know how confusing 
trunk calls are. I do think you ought to have 
written to tell me yourself, and not left others 
to do it. Surely Florence cannot mean that you 
have brought back this unknown baby to live 
with you at Thatches! Think of the expense it 
will be. A nurse, a little room entirely taken up, 
and milk a shilling a quart even in the country. 
Do you think you have the right to go about 
adopting people when you have plenty of 
nephews and nieces of your own?—and I gathered 
from Florence—though she is always rather indis¬ 
tinct on the ’phone—that it is a boy. Now, 
Mellory beloved, what can you do with a boy? 



84 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


What do you know about boys? I always feel 
thankful that my own dear children are girls 
(though I knew Fred and Anthony in boyhood 
and you didn’t), for boys are so difficult. A baby 
girl would have been better, though even then 
I should have felt it was exaggerated and uneces- 
sary to adopt her. Suppose this child grows up 
wild and unsatisfactory (as is quite possible if 
the father was a New Zealander or a Canadian, I 
couldn’t quite hear which, but they were all very 
undisciplined and difficult, one heard, in the war), 
how could I let baby Daphne come and stay with 
you? If I can possibly get away this week I will 
run down to see you and talk things over, for I 
feel sure you are letting yourself be imposed upon, 
just like you were over the gardener’s cottage. 
Have those people gone yet? I know such a 
nice couple here who would be so glad of some¬ 
thing of the kind, but the man wouldn’t do for a 
gardener, I fear, as he has only one arm—lost it 
in the war, poor man—and his wife is such a clean 
respectable woman. She would look after the 
baby for you here if you liked, at a very moderate 
charge. They have the sweetest little cottage, 
but fear they’ll have to leave it. I mentioned 
the matter of the baby to them, and they are 
quite willing. Do let me arrange it for you, dear¬ 
est, and do write to me yourself. You may safely 
pour out your heart to me. I feel rather hurt, 
and so does Douglas, that you should have left 
us to hear of all this from others—over the tele¬ 
phone, too—such a muddly, confused story 
Florence had to tell. Let me know what day 
towards the end of the week you would like me 


THE FAMILY 85 

to come. I fear I couldn’t manage it before 
Thursday. 

“Your own devoted sister, 

. “Maude. 

P. S.—The children send fond love.” 


“Mellory, you must eat your breakfast and 
leave the letters till after.” 

“Only this one, Cynthia, and then I will,” 
Mellory pleaded, as she opened a long envelope. 
“I must see what Mr. Langdon says.” 

“23, Old Square, 

“March 3,1919. “Lincoln’s Inn, W. C. 
“Dear Miss Upton, 

“We have received your letter of March 1st and 
have noted your instructions. We enclose a draft 
will which, if you approve, you will be so good 
as to return, when a fair copy will be sent for 
your signature. 

“I am yours faithfully, 

“William Langdon.” 

Mellory laid it on the table with a sigh of 
relief. Cynthia, deep in Maude’s letter, gave 
little spurts of merriment. 

“Mellory, my dear,” she said as she finished it, 
“I wouldn’t have missed being here this morning 
for a fiver. It only remains now for Henry to 
write from Delhi in his most departmental man¬ 
ner, and then you’ll be in possession of the united 
wisdom of your family. Either you’ve got a most 
inexpressive countenance or no sense of humour. 


86 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


. . . I’ve been watching you from time to time 
and your face never changes from its stony 
gloom. Pull yourself together, Mellory, drink 
some coffee. Swear a little—I’m sure you must 
have learned to do that in the munition colony— 
and when you’ve eaten your egg tell me how we 
all strike you.” 

Mellory drank some coffee. “What distresses 
me,” she said slowly, “is that you all seem to think 
that in spending anything on little Joe I’m doing 
something not quite honest—using father’s 
money in a way he wouldn’t approve.” 

“It isn’t father’s money now; it’s yours.” 

“None of you seem to think so.” 

“You’re not to lump me with the others; my 
objection is quite different.” 

“It’s just as unfair.” 

“Never mind me just now. Leave me out of 
it. What are you going to do?” 

“Exactly what I was going to do before, of 
course; but I do hate vexing them.” 

“And me? . . . and Geoff? . . . don’t you hate 
vexing us?” 

“Geoff hasn’t written. I don’t believe I’ve 
vexed Geoff a bit. He’s not that sort.” 

“That’s not to say he approves.” 

“Till he tells me he doesn’t I shall take it that 
he does.” 

The door was opened gingerly, and Margot put 
her head in. “I beg your pardon, miss, I thought 
perhaps you’d finished. ... If you could mind 
baby just while me and Mrs. Humpidge makes 
the beds . . . but no hurry, miss.” 

“Give him to me,” said Cynthia. “I’ll keep 


THE FAMILY 87 

him. You’d better read the rest of your letters, 
Mellory.” 

Margot, carrying Joe, came through the door. 
She handed him with pride to the pretty lady. 
A wide-awake, lively Joe, with bright eyes, pink 
cheeks, and eager little hands ever feeling for 
something to grasp. 

As Cynthia passed the table with Joe in her 
arms Mellory caught at one of his feet and kissed 
his knitted boot. 

“Cynthia,” she said, “can’t you try not to 
mind? Can’t you like him a little?” 

Cynthia stood looking down at her, half in 
scorn, half in affection. 

“As to liking him, the brat himself has seen 
to that. If he was a girl I’d call him a baggage. 
What’s the masculine for baggage? But I can’t 
bear you to have him. I hate you to have him. 
All the same—if you sent him to any sort of an 
institution now—I’d never speak to you again. 
So that’s that.” 



Ill 


t 


THE GODFATHER 

The men from Garchester had come and gone, 
and Mrs. Upton’s large, overcrowded bedroom 
was transformed into a sparsely furnished 
nursery for Joe. Margot was proudly established 
there, arranging his minute wardrobe in the Chip¬ 
pendale tallboys; while Joe, fenced round by 
pillows which he was doing his best to dislodge, 
sat in a large deep chair, and punched imaginary 
adversaries upon the nose and occasionally 
listened to Margot’s continual stream of con¬ 
versation. 

Cynthia had taken the keenest interest in the 
rearrangement; and by bringing the full force 
of her blandishments to bear upon the men, had 
succeeded in getting them to “try” furniture in 
all sorts of positions without grumbling or loss 
of temper. She didn’t do a hand’s turn herself, 
but she was a stimulating cause of activity in 
others, and Mellory was grateful to her, though 
she did feel slight qualms as to the fairness of it; 
and hardly liked to confess, even to herself, that 
Cynthia had flirted with those three elderly 
removal men just as outrageously as if they had 
been dukes or dramatists or subalterns. 

Now, exhausted by their efforts, she and Mel- 

88 


THE GODFATHER 


89 


lory awaited tea, and Cynthia was looking at 
her own charming reflection in a mirror hanging 
on the wall. 

“My hair will just hold out till I get home to¬ 
morrow/' she said; “so will my nails—but Mander 
will have to spend most of the afternoon over me. 
Are you going to have Florence and Maude, or 
one of them, or neither for the week-end?" 

“What would you advise?" 

“Well, if it was me I'd put them off till I got 
proper servants. Old Humpidge’ll strike if more 
visitors come in present conditions. She doesn't 
much like me—I can see. Have you answered 
any of those letters yet?—the servant ones?— 
and dare we ring for tea, or would Mother Hum- 
pidge be stuffy? If she doesn't bring tea soon, 
I shall go and fetch it. Why, it's a quarter to 
five! Don’t sit there looking as exhausted as if 
I hadn’t been helping you the whole blessed day. 
Wake up, Mellory, and for goodness' sake see if 
you can't do something to expedite tea." 

Mellory was supine in her comfortable chair— 
an offence to the impatient Cynthia. She really 
was very tired, though more in mind than in 
body. The weight of her family's displeasure 
was heavy upon her, and awe of Mrs. Humpidge, 
who looked disapproving, as well she might, 
whenever another fire was lit anywhere. The 
changing of the room, too, had been far more 
poignant than she had expected; and as the 
familiar things were carried out and dispersed she 
felt disloyal to her mother for changing anything; 
though she knew that, even if little Joe had not 
come, it would need to have been done. 


90 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


Cynthia had been a great help. She was so 
quick and decided, but she had hurt Mellory by 
her business-like readiness to discard or destroy. 
She was almost invariably right; but even if the 
things were rubbish, they were her mother’s 
rubbish—and she hated that anyone should even 
seem scornful of them. 

And now when at last they had a peaceful 
minute, Cynthia was fidgeting about, impatient 
for tea. It was inhospitable not to hurry it when 
she wanted it so badly—but Mrs. Humpidge! 

So Mellory continued to lie back in her com¬ 
fortable chair, thankful to be still for a few 
minutes. She couldn’t care very much whether 
tea was late or not. 

Movement in the hall outside. 

Ah!—there it was! But instead of bringing in 
the longed-for tray, Mrs. Humpidge only opened 
the door to announce “Mr. Mills” in tones that 
proclaimed indignantly: “More company, and 
me only single-handed!” 

Tea came at last, and Mellory, seated behind 
the little gate-leg table, fenced in by tea-things, 
found herself curiously remote and excluded. 
Cynthia immediately absorbed John Mill, and 
they talked to one another. Their voices sounded 
strange and far-off, and she was beginning to feel 
like an invisible spectator in her own drawing¬ 
room, when she heard Cynthia say: “Don’t you 
agree with me, Mr. Mill, that she should have a 
man about the place? She oughtn’t to live here 
with only women servants. Shouldn’t she at 
least have a gardener living in the cottage at the 
bottom of the drive?” 


THE GODFATHER 


91 


“I noticed that charming cottage as I came 
up,” he said, temporizing, and wondering why 
Mellory suddenly looked so uncomfortable. “I 
thought it was on this property, but wasn’t sure, 
for it doesn’t look quite like a lodge. It is 
occupied, isn’t it?” 

“I should think it is,” Cynthia said, “and my 
sister won’t do anything. We’re all at her from 
morning to night, but she makes no move of any 
kind, and until she does, they’ll stay till the end 
of time, and it’s a shame.” 

“Is it let?” he asked. 

“It is and it isn’t. . . . It’s like this. When 
my mother took the house from the Miss Atkin- 
sons they had allowed a neighbor to live in it 
for a few months, because she couldn’t get any¬ 
thing else. It’s the chauffeur’s cottage really, 
but nobody could get petrol or men just then, 
so Mallory didn’t insist on these people clearing 
out before they came in. Now, of course, she 
wants the cottage for a gardener, and they make 
no attempt to go. In fact, they’ve calmly told 
people here that they won’t go till they are turned 
out, and my sister is so weak. . . .” 

“It’s very difficult to find houses just now,” 
John pleaded. “I can quite understand Miss 
Upton’s unwillingness to evict them. . . . Per¬ 
haps a little later. ... I hope they are 
pleasant neighbours?” 

“No, that’s just what they’re not,” Cynthia 
cut in before Mellory could answer. “One’s 
awfully sorry for him, poor man, but she’s de¬ 
testable; takes every mortal thing she can get, 
makes use of Mellory in every possible way, and 


92 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


is never the least little bit grateful. That’s the 
trying thing. She goes about saying that the 
whole world owes her husband everything, be¬ 
cause he was so awfully smashed up in the war, 
and that whatever people do it’s no more than his 
bare due.” 

“He was the doctor in the next village,” 
Mellory explained, as Cynthia paused for breath. 
“He was very badly wounded, and had shell 
shock, and not only will he never walk again, 
but he’s not quite normal mentally. They had, 
of course, to sell the practice, and just then there 
seemed nowhere for them to go. The Miss Atkin- 
sons (the house belongs to them) were so sorry 
for them, they lent them the cottage, and they 
put their furniture in—what they kept . . . 

and how can I turn them out?” 

There was nothing remote about Mellory now. 
The colour had come back to her cheeks. She 
was eager, emphatic, and her eyes pleaded for 
support. 

“Honestly, I don’t see how you could,” he 
agreed “nice little houses are so scarce; but, mind, 
I think she ought to take him away the very 
minute she finds something.” 

“She’ll never find anything,” Cynthia said. 
“Mellory’s far too useful. There’s a telephone 
from the house to the cottage. They can’t ring 
up anyone but us, but she constantly rings up 
Mellory and gets her to order all sorts of things 
from Garchester and Marlehouse. She’s ever¬ 
lastingly borrowing, from frying-pans to French 
dictionaries, and she demands everything as if 


THE GODFATHER 


93 


it was a right. You’ve no idea how trying it 
is ... I did hope you would have taken the 
common-sense view.” 

He looked very much ashamed of himself, but 
shook his head: “It’s a most unfortunate situa¬ 
tion, but I don’t see what else Miss Upton can do.” 

Mellory looked at him gratefully. “Mrs. Jones 
pays rent,” she began . . . 

“Only twelve pounds a year and you pay the 
taxes,” Cynthia interrupted, “and it’s a really 
nice cottage, with a bathroom and jolly cupboards 
and all sorts of things—a model cottage. The 
Atkinsons built it for a treasured chauffeur and 
his wife.” 

“Perhaps later on . . he began hopefully. 

“No; she’ll never go till she’s turned out. She’s 
a firm, determined woman. The sort that wears 
spats and pincenez and shoes with soles three- 
quarters of an inch thick inlaid with rubber. 
She’s always dressed in buff woollies and handi¬ 
craft skirts that dip at the back; and she shows all 
her ears and screws up her hair into a snail¬ 
shaped knob at the back.” 

“She’s a most devoted wife,” Mellory said. 

“Oh yes, now, when he’s absolutely dependent 
on her, but I’ve heard she bullied him dreadfully 
before. What annoys me most is that she harps 
for ever on what we all owe her husband—as if 
no one else ever went to the war.” 

“And after all, isn’t she right?” Mellory ex¬ 
claimed. “Don’t we owe everything to people 
who’ve given so much? We all allow it in the 
abstract, but what’s the use of that if, when we 


94 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


get the chance, we refuse to help in the least 
little way?” 

Cynthia sighed: “What with derelict doctors 
and orphan boys, you’ll have your hands pretty 
full.” 

“Talking of boys,” he said, “am I not to see my 
friend Joe?” 

“For heaven’s sake don’t ring, Mellory,” 
Cynthia exclaimed, “or Humpidge will leave us 
to-night without any dinner. I’ll go and tell 
Margot to bring him.” 

“Do you think Joe is a very ugly name?” 
Mellory asked confidentially when Cynthia had 
gone. 

“I like it,” he answered. “All the little boys I 
know are called Peter or Michael or Christopher. 
Joe is both downright and distinguished just 
now.” 

“It’s funny,” she said, “how everybody speaks 
of him as a little boy. His mother did. You, 
who’ve only seen him once. My sister. I seldom 
think of him as baby, nearly always as little Joe.” 

“He has got a good deal of personality. Be¬ 
fore I forget, Mrs. Prescott wants to know if you 
are pleased with the nurse—is she shaping well?” 

“She has shaped quite definitely, and at present 
I’m exceedingly jealous of her. She’s so com¬ 
petent. I’m afraid Joe likes her better than me. 
She talks his language, and I’ve got to learn it.” 

“I don’t think you need worry,” he said gently, 
“even if you can’t learn his language, he’ll very 
quickly learn yours.” 


THE GODFATHER 95 

“But I want to learn his language, otherwise 
I’m shut outside, and I couldn’t bear that.” 

“1 can’t imagine anybody wanting to shut you 
out, least of all that jolly little Joe. I feel as 
though even I am included in his circle of 
friends—a sort of pseudo-godfather or some¬ 
thing.” 

“I wonder ...” Mellory began, and 
stopped. 

“What do you wonder?” 

“Whether you would be . . . really?” 

“Be his godfather? But you know nothing 
about me!” 

“It’s like this. You see, my own people are 
not very pleased. They think it is a great respon¬ 
sibility for me-—as it is. And that I’m not very 
competent—and I’m not. So I can’t ask any of 
them. I can be his godmother—that’s what I 
hope he’ll call me—but he’s a boy and he ought 
to have two godfathers, and, so far as I can see, 
I can’t raise even one. . . . Should you mind 
very much? You shan’t have any bother really— 
only it would be nice if you could take an 
interest. ...” 

“I take that already—but I think you are rash. 
You don’t know how tiresome I might become. 
Dare you risk it?” 

“I’ll risk it, if you’ll risk how tiresome I may 
become—asking advice and things. There’s just 
one thing I’d like to know—are you any connec¬ 
tion of John Stuart Mill?” 

“Oh, dear, no, nothing so distinguished.” 

“I’m thankful. I couldn’t have borne it, if 




96 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


you’d insisted on poor little Joe starting Greek 
at two.” 

“I won’t insist on anything, but I’d like to 
teach him to throw a fly later on if you’ll let me, 
and I’d like to give him his first cricket bat.” 

“And I may ask you things?” 

“Rather; but I shall very likely fail you as to 
the answers.... I suppose,” he continued, “to be 
a godfather is quite the proper metier for an old 
bachelor. It’s an odd thing that, although I’ve 
got lots of nephews and nieces, especially nieces, 
I should have reached fifty-two and have never 
been a godfather before. That looks bad—dare 
you employ such a neophite?” 

“I dare. Already I know you to be obliging; 
and that you can fill coal-boxes and carry babies, 
and wash up tea-things. I’ll take it on trust that 
you’re honest and sober and an early riser. So is 
it a bargain?” 

“When is the christening?” 

“As soon as I can fix it. Will you be here 
all the week?” 

“Alas! no. I go back to Town to-morrow. Can 
a proxy be found? I fear I can’t get away again 
before Easter.” 

Here Cynthia returned to say that Joe was fast 
asleep, and John Mill took his leave. 

“I left you a nice long time, didn’t I?” Cynthia 
asked complacently, when Mellory returned from 
seeing him out. “I bet you anything that man 
is bullied by his relatives. He’s got the lost dog 
expression of one who is made to put his things 
away in other people’s houses. I should size him 


THE GODFATHER 


97 


up as an unselfish old bachelor who has never 
been allowed even the chance to marry. I saw 
him wince when I described Mrs. Jones. He 
knows the type.” 


IV 


“POOR OLD JOHN” 

On the first Sunday in Lent, Joseph Jay Bent 
was received into the bosom of the Church. He 
didn’t behave well. He fought the vicar and rent 
the air with his outcries. Gerty’s young man 
kindly stood as proxy for John Mill, and Joe, 
who was wide awake and observant, took an in¬ 
stant dislike to him; and when Joe took a dislike 
to anyone his attitude was “Away with him!” 
and he made no effort to conceal his feelings. 

The ceremony took place before the children’s 
service in the afternoon, and was largely at¬ 
tended. Joe’s adoption was even more than a 
nine days’ wonder in the village, and had flared 
throughout the neighbourhood like a banner 
upon which each new beholder embroidered 
something fresh. 

Margot’s father and mother and two little sis¬ 
ters had walked the long three miles from Easter- 
hays in order to be present, and she was discon¬ 
certed that her charge should have made so poor 
a figure. Not that she blamed Joe. She found 
not only excuses but reasons for his outrageous 
conduct, as that the vicar “had no business to 
go sluicing the poor child’s head like that,” and 
Joe was probably frightened at that great oaf, 
Gerty’s young man. Again, that Joe was both 

9S 


“POOR OLD JOHN” 


99 


too old and too young for such an ordinance. 
“ ’Tis best to get it over at the month, or else 
wait till they’ve got some sense.” All these opin¬ 
ions did Margot impart to Mellory as she wheeled 
Joe—now sleeping like an angel in his pram— 
back to Thatches. Not till far later in the day 
did she mention that her father and mother were 
present at the church. She had already sized up 
her mistress, and knew that she would have in¬ 
sisted on the whole family coming to tea in the 
kitchen, and Margot shared Mellory’s awe of Mrs. 
Humpidge. 

As it was, Joe’s christening party consisted of 
Mrs. Humpidge, Margot, Gerty and Gerty’s 
young man in the kitchen. He still slept in his 
pram outside the drawing-room window, and 
Mellory had tea alone, save for Dundee upon the 
hearth-rug and Dinah upon her knee. 

Mrs. Humpidge had sent her in a slice of the 
rather heavy cake she had made in honour of 
the occasion; and Mellory, after tasting it and 
carefully crumbling a little on her plate, shut 
the rest in a drawer of her desk rather than risk 
the possible umbrage of Mrs. Humpidge if she 
left it. 

She sat by the open window, drinking her tea 
and waiting for Joe to wake. His bottle was 
standing ready in a basin of warm water, for he 
was sleeping considerably past his usual time. 

Poor little Joe! with no one to come to his 
christening party. She longed for him to wake 
that she might take him up and tell him how 
greatly she loved him. She wanted to make 
much of him: to assure him of his supreme im- 


> 


> 




3 


> > 3 


100 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


portance to her, whatever might be the opinion 
of unsympathetic outsiders. 

Anyway she had secured him a nice godfather. 
She recalled John Mill almost tenderly. His thin, 
sensitive face (how perfectly he had understood 
about the cottage); his nice thick grey hair with 
the curly kink on the temples; his honest eyes 
with what Cynthia called their “lost dog” expres¬ 
sion; and as she remembered his bent shoulders 
and rather shabby tweed coat, she drew from her 
pocket the letter she had received yesterday and 
read it again. 


“Athenaeum Club, 

“7/3/19. “Pall Mall, W. 

“Dear Miss Upton, 

“So Joe is to be made a Christian on Sunday. 
I’ve already ordered his mug—that’s the correct 
offering for a godfather, isn’t it?—but I fear it 
won’t arrive in time, as name and date have to 
be engraved upon it. At times I am seized with 
quite dreadful misgivings as to my fitness for the 
role of godfather. I’ve been reading the service; 
and were it not that I am so sure you will prefer 
to deal with the theological part of Joe’s educa¬ 
tion yourself, I should have cried off from sheer 
terror. As it is, I can honestly promise to do 
my best for the little chap in human and tem¬ 
poral matters. The Church of England 'as by 
law established’ is extraordinarily comprehensive, 
and when it is by law disestablished will probably 
be even more so. Therefore I feel that, whatever 
his views later on, little Joe cannot do better than 
start within its fold. 


“POOR OLD JOHN” 


101 


“And please be sure of this—that however un¬ 
worthy I may feel myself to be anybody’s god¬ 
father, I do appreciate the beautiful compliment 
of being asked. 

“Believe me, yours most truly, 

“John F. Mill.” 

Again Mellory told herself that she knew noth¬ 
ing whatever about him except what she had ob¬ 
served. Nevertheless, she was convinced that she 
had done well for little Joe. All the same, it 
would be agreeable to know a little more, and she 
was pleased to be going to lunch with Mrs. Pres¬ 
cott to-morrow. “Only ourselves” the note had 
said, so perhaps there would be a chance to ask 
some questions. He had spoken of himself as 
an old bachelor, but she was convinced he didn’t 
live alone. So was Cynthia. 

Could she ask him to come and stay at 
Thatches some day, or would people talk? Surely 
not if there was somebody else. He must get to 
know his godson, and he couldn’t do that properly 
if he only came over to call from Easterhayes. 
Had he told Mrs. Prescott? She hoped so, but 
she had misgivings. He wasn’t a telling person. 
It was most difficult to extract any information 
from him about himself. If he hadn’t told, she 
must. He was Mrs. Prescott’s guest, and she had 
been so kind and sympathetic. It would be 
horrid to keep anything like that from her. 

Would she think it funny? 

Probably. Yet the child had to have a god¬ 
father, and she wasn’t going to ask any of her 
own family. They’d make such a favour of it. 


102 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


They were so prejudiced. They kept writing such 
tiresome letters. All but Cynthia. Cynthia had 
hardly mentioned Joe in the letter she wrote 
when she got back, and Mellory knew why. Poor 
Cynthia! 

There was Geoff. Geoff would probably have 
been quite willing, but Cynthia wouldn’t have 
liked it. 

Was Joe never going to wake? 

She took Dinah in her arms and stood up to 
lean out of the latticed window to look at the 
sleeping Joe. And as she gazed she suddenly felt 
quite brave and reckless. The world and its opin¬ 
ions might go hang, for there, rosy and placid, 
with his inquiring nose perkily uplifted to get as 
much air as possible, and his red mouth firmly 
shut—admirable habits that Margot was never 
tired of pointing out—with black lashes that 
seemed to grow longer and thicker every day, 
with the delicious downy hair that Margot 
brushed so assiduously—there he lay, absorbing 
the good keen air of Thatches, as sturdy and per¬ 
sonable a baby as you would see in a month of 
Sundays. 

And he was hers. Her little boy. 

A great wave of confidence seemed to surge 
over and engulf Mellory. 

She crossed the room with a firm step, ex¬ 
tracted the slice of cake from the drawer, and 
put it back upon the plate. No, she wouldn’t 
give any to Dinah, it would be bad for her. After 
all, a new cook was coming on Wednesday. 

When she got back to the window Margot was 
leaning over the pram and murmuring: “Still 



“POOR OLD JOHN” 


103 


asleep? The blessed lamb, they’ve fairly wore 
him out with their renouncings and their prom¬ 
ises.” 

Lunch at Easterhayes was over and Mrs. Pres¬ 
cott had carried off Mellory to her own little 
sitting-room for coffee. “Now,” she said, “you 
must tell me. . . . I’m devoured by curiosity 
and green with jealousy. . . . How on earth did 
you persuade old John to be that baby’s god¬ 
father?” 

“I didn’t persuade him. I just asked him. I’m 
afraid it was great cheek—but I did—and he 
consented.” 

“I’ve got five children,” Mrs. Prescott said, 
“and every time the question of godparents came 
up I wanted John Mill; but Tom would never 
let me ask him because of the cups and things. 
He said he was too poor.” 

Mellory looked dismayed: “Oh, dear Mrs. Pros- 
cott, how dreadful! I never thought of that— 
and he’s sending Joe a mug!” 

“He isn’t poor any more now, so you needn’t 
worry; but I haven’t got a new baby, so it doesn’t 
benefit me. ... I think you’re disgustingly 
lucky.” 

“I hope he isn’t very rich,” Mellory said rue¬ 
fully, “for then it might look . . . and truly I 
didn’t know anything about him except that he 
was a gentleman, and awfully kind, and he helped 
me with Joe when there was nobody else. . . . 
I hope you don’t think I’ve done wrong?” 

“I think you’ve done uncommonly right; but 


104 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


tell me—did you honestly, truly, know nothing 
whatever about him?” 

“I never saw or heard of him before last Satur¬ 
day week, when the maids ran away, and I’ve 
seen him once since, when he came over to tea.” 

“And don’t you want to know about him?” 

“Very much—very much indeed.” 

“Well, I can tell you a bit, for I suppose we 
know him better than most people; but nobody 
really knows poor old John. I always have the 
feeling that there are two Johns, the one we see 
—shabby, reserved, hard-working; extraordinar¬ 
ily unselfish and kind; and adorable with children 
and old people—and another John whom nobody 
ever sees—a gay and giddy John who has never 
had a chance; and now probably won’t ever have 
a chance. I don’t know how to express it, but 
I’m convinced that there’s a bit of him that has 
never found expression.” 

“How do you mean ‘has never had a chance’?” 

“Well, for one thing, ever since he was twenty- 
four he’s had his parents on his shoulders. He 
was at Eton and the House with Tom. Then he 
went up for the Home Civil and passed well. 
He went to the Home Office, and no sooner had 
he started there than his father lost nearly all 
his money through imprudent speculation. So 
John had practically to keep him and his mother.” 

“Was he an only child?” 

“No; there are two sisters, both a good deal 
older than John; and, fortunately, both were 
married before the crash came—but they couldn’t 
help. His father was sixty-four, and he simply 
folded his paws and sank into senile invalidism, 



“POOR OLD JOHN” 105 

without anything much the matter with him. 
Anyway, he lived to be eighty.” 

“And his mother?” 

“She was very sweet, very gentle and devoted, 
but she, too, folded her paws and sat down in 
a comfortable chair opposite her husband, and 
expected John to do everything. He took a little 
house for them at Rickmansworth and went to 
and fro every day to the Home Office. All his 
week-ends he spent working in the garden, and 
cheering up the old people. All his evenings, 
when he was not working, he played chess with 
his father, or halma with his mother, or read 
aloud from any work that happened to interest 
them. He literally never got away except when 
he came down here for a day or two, and then 
only if one of the sisters could go and be with 
the parents.” 

Mellory nodded. “I know,” she said, “it’s very 
difficult to get away.” 

“But it oughtn’t to have been,” Mrs. Prescott 
protested. “It was a fetish of that species of 
parents that they couldn’t be left. Someone 
must always be in attendance. No parent could 
ever stay alone for half a day.” 

Mellory thought of her own kind father and 
mother, of her own life—and she knew how it 
was that John understood about the cottage. 
“Was he very fond of them?” she asked. 

“He adored them. He felt it his duty and de¬ 
light and privilege to work for them continually, 
and never, never spend a penny on himself.” 

“He can’t have had many to spend, poor dear.” 

“It wasn’t that mattered—it was his time. 



106 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


Except to work, he never got away, and it didn’t 
seem to occur to them that he was a young man, 
that he had a life of his own to live. ‘John doesn’t 
care for gadding/ his mother used to say; ‘he’s 
quite happy with me. Simple pleasures satisfy 
him.’ ” 

“If he loved them so much, I expect he didn’t 
really mind.” 

“He ought to have minded. It wasn’t a man’s 
life, and nothing will ever make me believe he 
didn’t know it. But he was imbued with the idea 
that his parents had made great sacrifices for 
him; that if he hadn’t gone to Eton and Oxford 
they’d have been better off. They wouldn’t; for 
they’d just have spent the money some other way 
while they had it.” 

“Still, they did give him a good education.” 

“Don’t you think,” Mrs. Prescott asked, “that 
of all the mean ways of getting back on one’s 
children, the meanest is to throw their education 
in their teeth?” 

“But, surely,” Mellory pleaded, “we ought to 
be grateful for a good education?” 

“For our education, yes, if it’s good. Mine 
wasn’t; but I was an idle young wretch, and led 
our poor governess an awful life. What I mean 
is, we should be grateful if we have had unusual 
advantages—for the advantages, not to the 
parent who pays for them. I don’t see that my 
sons owe Tom any particular gratitude because 
he sends them to a good school. He wouldn’t 
like it if they went to a second-rate one; and 
no one was prouder than the old Mills because 
John did well at Eton and Oxford. They got 


“POOR OLD JOHN” 


107 


their full money’s worth that way. And yet that 
tiresome father always rubbed it in what advan¬ 
tages John had had; and how meagre his own 
chances had been compared to John’s; and how 
it was only by superhuman economy and dili¬ 
gence that he had reached the pinnacle he stood 
on before he started those flirtations with com¬ 
pany promoters and building societies which 
ruined him—and of that he always talked as if 
it were an ‘act of God’ and not his own stupidity. 
And as for economy, who could have been more 
economical than poor old John? I don’t suppose 
he ever had a suit made for him in his life. He 
bought such clothes as he had at sales. He 
bought his boots off the pegs. I don’t expect he 
knows where Savile Row is.” 

“I’m afraid you didn’t like old Mr. Mill?” 

“I didn’t dislike him. He was quite a charm¬ 
ing old gentleman; but I was always enraged at 
their complacency and the way they used to let 
John go without everything that makes life worth 
living—wear shabby clothes, never go anywhere, 
never see a woman at all except his mother and 
sisters, and she used to say: ‘My son will never 
marry, he never wants anyone but me.’ Oh, I 
could have shaken her! And all the time they 
had their little drives and their two maids, 
and the decayed gentlewoman to do the shop¬ 
ping. ...” 

“But after a bit, when he got on and wasn’t 
so poor—couldn’t he do things then?” 

“Never, because he couldn’t get away. He 
couldn’t leave them. My dear, you’re just start¬ 
ing a little son, and I’ve an idea that your notions 


108 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


of filial piety rather resemble old John’s. Don’t 
expect too much of the poor kiddy. Let him have 
a life of his own.” 

“I want him to have a life of his own—a happy 
life. But I do want him to love me, and it seems 
to me—perhaps I am wrong—but it does seem to 
me that some of the young people don’t love their 
parents much—are rather unkind. Don’t you 
think they are?” 

“I can’t say I’ve anything to complain of my¬ 
self,” Mrs. Prescott said cheerfully, “but I quite 
see what you mean—only it doesn’t make the 
other system any more right, however undutiful 
youngsters may be now. It’s the swing of the 
pendulum, I suppose. I assure you poor old John 
had his best years killed, as deliberately as if 
they’d taken him by the throat and strangled 
him.” 

“Is his mother still alive?” 

“No; she died some eight years ago—but just 
then his elder sister, Mrs. Rolt, was left a widow 
with a large house in Weybridge, and not at all 
well off, so John went and lived with her to help 
her. She has three daughters, Betty and Joan 
and Pamela. All the girls of that time are Betty 
and Joan and Pamela; it does date them so, poor 
things!—that’s why I called my daughter Jane.” 

“And does he like living with them?” 

“John never considers what he likes; but any¬ 
way, thank heaven! he doesn’t need to stay with 
them continually. During the war he took a bed¬ 
sitting-room in St. James’s Place, because he was 
a special constable and couldn’t get to and fro, 
the trains were so bad, and he has kept it on; 



“POOR OLD JOHN” 109 

so he often stays in Town all week, and only goes 
back to the nieces for the week-end.” 

“You’re sure he’s really better off and that 
Joe’s present won’t matter?” 

“Oh, I haven’t told you—not only is he now a 
permanent under-secretary, but an uncle, who 
had never lifted a finger to help them when they 
were very hard up, left him thirty thousand 
pounds last year. By-and-by he’ll have his pen¬ 
sion, of course, so he’ll be quite well off, for him, 
if the family doesn’t grab it all.” 

Mellory rose. “I hope he’ll have some fun with 
it,” she said. “It’s not too late.” 

Mrs. Prescott laughed. “It strikes me old John 
has already begun,” she said. 


V 


MRS. JONES 

It was nearly five o’clock when Mellory got 
back to Thatches, and she remembered with dis¬ 
may that Mrs. Humpidge was going out that 
afternoon and Margot and little Joe were alone 
in the house. She had utilised the car to do 
some shopping in Garchester, and, of course, it 
had taken far longer than she expected. 

The motor stopped at the entrance to the drive, 
for the gate was shut. This was unusual; it was 
always and purposely left open, as it made it 
easier for motors to take the steep hill. So Mel¬ 
lory got out and tipped the driver, saying she’d 
walk up to the house. As he drove off Mrs. 
Jones appeared in the door of the cottage and 
called to her. 

“Miss Upton, I want to speak to you. No, 
don’t trouble to come in. I’ll come out to you.” 

Mrs. Jones had evidently been watching for her 
return. She had on her outdoor things (as de¬ 
scribed by Cynthia), and a velour hat trimmed 
with the ribbon of the regiment to which her 
husband had been attached. 

It was one of Mrs. Jones’s peculiarities that, 
while she was much given to stopping people in 
the road just outside, she very seldom asked them 
into her house. After her first call Mellory had 

no \ 


MRS. JONES 


111 


never been inside it, although Mrs. Jones had 
been to Thatches dozens of times. The March 
wind was cold, and Mellory shivered as she 
waited. 

“I shut your gate,” Mrs. Jones announced 
abruptly, “so that I should hear the motor stop. 
I regret that I have to complain to you about 
one of your servants.” 

“About one of the servants?” Mellory faltered. 

“Not Mrs. Humpidge. Of course, I know her, 
and I saw her go out earlier in the afternoon. 
You’re fortunate to get her to stay so long. She 
will never give me more than an odd day, but 
she’s a respectable woman, and I have nothing 
to say against her. . . . It’s that girl you’ve got 
to look after the baby.” 

“Margot! What has she done?” 

“She was wheeling the baby on the terrace 
when I called, and she was most impertinent.” 

“Impertinent?” 

People had a way of repeating Mrs. Jones’s 
remarks. There seemed no other way of answer¬ 
ing, short of violent language. 

“I went to borrow a little milk, and she refused 
it—refused it point-blank.” 

“She can’t have understood,” Mellory mur¬ 
mured. “I’m so sorry I missed you.” 

“Unfortunately my poor husband—he has not 
full control of his limbs—upset the jug of milk 
that was placed on a little table by him, and I 
don’t happen to have any more in the house. 
Now he always has a glass of milk last thing, so 
I must get some from somewhere, and naturally 
I thought of you as my nearest neighbour.” 


112 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“Of course,” Mellory agreed. 

“Now that girl declared—she went into the 
house to see—there wasn’t any to spare, only the 
baby’s. ‘Well, then,’ I said, ‘give me some of 
that.’ But she refused, flatly refused, and I told 
her I should tell you immediately you came in.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Mellory said uncomfortably, 
“but I expect it was a fact that there is very 
little milk. Mrs. Humpidge is most careful and 
doesn’t take any in the afternoon except baby’s, 
and that comes in special bottles.” 

“I suppose bottles can be opened?” 

“But there’s only enough for him during the 
night.” 

“And my poor husband must go without? I 
can’t leave him. The girl who works for me goes 
at five. What am I to do? How can I get it?” 

Just then her face changed and softened. “He’s 
calling me,” she said. Her querulous voice al¬ 
tered to an eager kindness as she called back: 
“Coming, my dear, coming.” 

She rushed back into the cottage and left Mel¬ 
lory standing in the road. 

Mellory almost ran up the drive. 

Margot met her at the door with Joe in her 
arms. “It got a bit cold, miss, so I brought him 
in. Your tea’s all ready except to make it, and 
the kettle’s boiling. If you don’t mind holding 
him when you’ve got your things off, I’ll make 
it in a minute. He’s that spirited this afternoon.” 

Mellory held out her arms for the spirited Joe, 
who bounced and smiled at her sociably. 

“One moment, Margot. Can’t we spare any 


MRS. JONES 


113 


milk—if we go without ourselves, I mean? Mrs. 
Jones stopped me at the gate. She wants some 
for her husband—the poor doctor, he upset 
his . . . ” 

Margot looked uncomfortable. “There’s only 
a spot, miss, just enough for tea and your early 
morning cup. Mrs. Humpidge made a chocolate 
mould before she went out, and that took it 
nearly all. The lady didn’t tell me what she 
wanted it for. . . . ” 

“Can’t we raise three-quarters of a tumbler 
even?—and I’ll run down with it before I take 
off my coat. I’ll keep Joe while you go and see.” 

Mellory, sitting on the piano-stool with Joe on 
her knee, felt that he was more comforting than 
the best tea ever brewed: so warm and soft and 
full of lively movement. With one hand she 
played him chordy tunes, and from time to time 
he would look up in her face making delicious 
pleased little noises. This was already a favour¬ 
ite game, and would sometimes console him even 
when he was hungry and the punctual bottle 
wasn’t due for another hour. She leant her cheek 
luxuriously on his fluffy hair, and told him how 
she had been to Garchester to buy him a real 
cot with sides, for he was getting too long for his 
cradle. But this didn’t seem to interest him in 
the least, for just then he was trying with all 
his strength to pull out handfuls of fur from her 
stole. 

Margot returned bearing a tumbler three parts 
full on a little tray. “That’s every drop there is, 
mum,” she said. 

It was the first time she had ever called Mellory 


114 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 

“mum,” and it marked an advance in their rela¬ 
tionship. 

“Perhaps we’d better put it in a jug,” Mellory 
said. “I’m sorry you’ll have no milk in your tea, 
but we couldn’t let the poor doctor do without, 
could we?” 

“That lady’s a bit masterful, isn’t she, mum? 
She seemed to think she could have baby’s milk 
just for the telling. She was downright nasty 
to me.” 

“I expect she didn’t mean it,” Mellory said 
pacifically; “it’s just her manner. Would you 
like to take it down?” 

“I’ll take it ... if you wish it, mum, but . . .” 

“I’ve got my things on, perhaps I'd better go,” 
said Mellory. 

When she knocked, Mrs. Jones opened the door 
herself. 

“I’ve got a very little for you,” Mellory said, 
holding out the jug. “Not quite half a pint, but 
perhaps it will be better than none.” 

Mrs. Jones took the jug. “So there was some,” 
she said. “I knew that girl was not telling the 
truth.” 

“She wasn’t sure if she ought to give it away 
as I wasn’t there. I’m sorry. If you’ll put it in 
a tumbler I’ll take the jug back.” 

This was a necessary precaution. Jugs, bas¬ 
kets, all manner of kitchen utensils had a way of 
remaining indefinitely with Mrs. Jones unless 
retrieved at the time. 

She didn’t ask Mellory to cross the threshold, 
and as she returned with the empty jug, all she 


MRS. JONES 115 

said was: “I hope he won’t notice it’s less than 
usual.” 

Next day Mellory met her in the village. She 
was going to pass on with a bow and smile, but 
again Mrs. Jones stopped her. “I was going to 
tell you yesterday, when my husband called me, 
about that girl Margot Pullin. Did she happen 
to confess to you why she left her last place?” 

“Mrs. Prescott knows her well, and has told me 
everything that is necessary.” 

“I venture to question whether Mrs. Prescott 
knows what I feel it is my duty to tell you.” 

“I really think—” Mellory began. 

“It’s no use,” Mrs. Jones interrupted, “living 
in a fool’s paradise, and I must tell you what I’ve 
heard, then the onus is off me. It happens that 
the family she was in at Cricklewood are old 
friends of mine, and knowing she came from this 
neighbourhood, they naturally told me about her. 
She stole from them right and left, so I advise 
you to look out. Yesterday afternoon proved her 
to be untruthful, and the two things often go to¬ 
gether. No, it’s no use trying to explain it away. 
I’m sure of my facts, and I don’t want to hear 
anything more about it. I’ve warned you—that’s 
all. Good-morning.” 

Mrs. Jones hurried on her way, and Mellory 
went more slowly on hers, almost breathless with 
anger and indignation. In the week they had 
been together, she had learned to rely upon Mar¬ 
got, to like her and trust her. Had not Joe gained 
five ounces in weight since she came? Mellory 
was jealous of her often, but was too fair-minded 
not to realise that the feeling was jealousy, be- 


116 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


cause she was so clever with Joe. She respected 
Margot, and the fact that the usually censorious 
Mrs. Humpidge approved of Margot, and im¬ 
pressed upon Mellory the fact that she was lucky 
to get a girl “brought up like that,” added to 
her confidence. 

Confound Mrs. Jones! 

She was sorry for Mrs. Jones. She admired 
her single-minded devotion to her poor husband. 
She was willing to give and lend and endure their 
rather afflicting presence in the cottage, but— 
Mrs. Jones must not try to interfere in Mellory’s 
domestic arrangements, or malign her trusted 
servants. 

There were limits to the endurance of even the 
most patient. Yet, in justice to Mrs. Jones, Mel¬ 
lory had to own that granted she believed, how¬ 
ever mistakenly, that Margot was a thief, she did 
right to warn Mellory. . . . But to refuse to 
listen to any defence of the girl was atrocious. 
What had really happened with those cantanker¬ 
ous people at Cricklewood, she wondered; and 
ought she to take up the matter of Margot’s 
defence with Mrs. Jones, or leave it alone? 

Her errand was to the far end of the village, 
to engage a laundress for little Joe’s special use, 
who would come to the house twice a week, for 
at present he had not enough clothes to carry 
him on at the usual weekly rate, unless there was 
more economy in small garments than Mellory 
liked. She had exalted pre-war notions of how 
babies should be kept. Already a woman in the 
village was sewing for Joe, Mellory herself was 


MRS. JONES 


117 


sewing in all her spare time. Margot had him 
out of doors most of the daylight, unless it was 
very wet, and Mellory had already perceived that 
her sewing was, as Mrs. Prescott had said, “im¬ 
pressionistic.” Never mind. Other people must 
sew for Joe. If Margot kept him beautiful, and 
happy, and well, Mellory was not going to ask 
more of her. 

The laundress would promise very little. This 
week she would come, but she couldn’t come 
“reglar.” No one would ever promise anything 
“reglar.” “Tempry” and a day “here and again” 
was what people seemed to want and like. Ac¬ 
customed to the servants in her parents’ house¬ 
hold, who had seemed as much a part of the 
established universe as day and night, Mellory 
found this general evasion most disconcerting. 

Could she do Joe’s washing herself? She never 
had done any washing, but perhaps she could 
learn. How useless her education had been, she 
reflected, discontentedly; an education that ig¬ 
nored so many useful and, now, necessary domes¬ 
tic arts. 

At Thatches, Margot was wheeling Joe up and 
down the terrace, and Mellory was struck afresh 
by her pallor and thinness. She had been up very 
early, Mellory knew, and Joe had been rather 
restless during the night. Had the girl eaten a 
proper breakfast? Mellory suddenly remembered 
the religiously observed “elevens” in the Hill 
Street household, and asked: “Have you had 
anything to eat, Margot?—but I’m sure you’ve 
not. Go in and get some milk or a cup of cocoa 


118 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


and a bit of cake or something. I’ll look after 
the boy.” 

Margot turned very red. “Please, ’m, I don’t 
want to be always eating,” she said. 

“It’s too long for you to go from eight o’clock 
till lunch time. I should like you always to have 
something at eleven. What do you like?” 

“I’m not hungry, mum, reely. I get plenty at 
my meals . . . here.” 

Mellory took hold of the handle of the pram. 
“I should like you to go and have something, 
Margot,” she said firmly. “You’re much too thin, 
and I shall feel it’s a reflection on me if you don’t 
improve.” 

“Keep him moving, mum, just a minute, he’s 
settling off,” Margot said, and went slowly into 
the house. Mellory felt that the girl’s eyes were 
trying to say something that she, herself, couldn’t 
put into words. 

Joe looked not a penny the worse for the bad 
night he had given his nurse. Still and contem¬ 
plative, he lay under the hood with his eyes fixed 
on the brass rod that held it in position. Much 
as she longed to kiss him, Mellory refrained, and 
he took no notice of his change of guardian. By 
the time she reached the revolving shelter at the 
end of the terrace furthest from the house, he 
had, as Margot put it, “settled off.” Mellory 
was tired. She went inside the shelter and sat 
down. 


VI 


THE SECRET HEART OF MARGOT 

Margot did not stay away long, and was, per¬ 
haps, a shade less pale when she came back. 

“Come in here and sit down,” Mellory said. 
“Little Joe is sound asleep and I want to talk 
to you.” 

Margot looked startled, but obeyed meekly and 
sat down in a low chair facing Mellory. 

“Please, mum,” she said, “did that lady, Mrs. 
Jones, say anything to you about me?” 

“She did, but it’s not about that I want to 
talk.” 

“Mother said it was sure to happen,” Margot 
said, in a low voice, “an’ I’d better tell you myself 
the real truth.” 

“I’m quite sure anything you tell me will be 
the truth, and I’ll be glad to hear anything that 
your mother thinks I ought to know.” 

“Do you mind telling me, mum, what it was 
the lady said?” 

“Well, I don’t think I’d better do that exactly, 
but it was to the effect that your mistress at 
Cricklewood didn’t speak very well of you.” 

“There was three mistresses, and they quar¬ 
relled amongst themselves something frightful,” 
Margot exclaimed, with sudden vigour, “an’ a 
great big high house an’ only me an’ the cook 

119 


120 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


to do everything, an’ the work was hard. But I 
shouldn’t have minded that if only they’d bin 
kind an’ we’d bin fed proper. We weren’t fed 
proper. You wouldn’t believe it, mum—you 
what locks up nothing, and wanting me to have 
milk at eleven. You wouldn’t let Dinah nor 
Dundee go without as we had to.” 

“I know the war made things very difficult in 
London,” Mellory said gently. 

“But they had things theirselves. It was that 
broke us down. Every bit of their stuff kept 
under lock and key, an’ if one of ’em wasn’t 
poking and counting and watching, then it was 
the other. I wouldn’t have stopped, not my 
month I wouldn’t have stopped, but for mother. 
I knew she’d be so vexed, an’ me four years in 
the nursery at Easterhayes, an’ ever such a refer¬ 
ence. I couldn’t stop in uncle’s shop. I reely 
tried. Six months I tried, but the smell of the 
calico and those Nottingham lace curtains seemed 
to sort of smother me so’s I couldn’t breathe. 
An’ my aunt goin’ on at me all the time because 
I was that slow. I couldn’t seem to learn where 
things was kept, and I was a bad saleswoman.” 

Margot stopped, looking rather ashamed of her 
own flow of words. 

“Yes,” Mellory said, “and then?” 

“So when I got to the Miss Taylors I felt I 
couldn’t leave at once, not if it was ever so: and 
I stopped six months there, too, and I wish now 
as I hadn’t stopped six days. Mother wouldn’t 
let me leave Mrs. Prescott in the first part of 
the war, not to go on the land nor make muni¬ 
tions or anything. She’s all for service, mother 


THE SECRET HEART OF MARGOT 121 


is; but when uncle wrote for me she wouldn’t 
stand in my way, an’ I thought p’raps now I’d 
be seeing life a bit. But the hours was long, and 
there!—aunt was every bit as strict as mother, 
and not a quarter so kind, an’ I got that depressed 
with the smells and the stuffiness, and only one 
clean sheet every three weeks, and I used to think 
of my beautiful nurseries and the lovely beds and 
Master Billy till I cried, I was so homesick. But 
I wasn’t going back home. I determined I’d get 
something for myself; so I went to a registry 
office in Cricklewood an’ there seemed hundreds 
of places an’ ladies tumblin’ over each other to 
get servants, an’ so I went to the Miss Taylors. 
Last June I went.” 

“Yes,” Mellory said again, for Margot had 
paused to take breath. 

“Well, mum, after two months Ruby—she was 
the cook—an’ me, we got sort of reckless, an’ we 
eat up everything we could lay hands on as it 
came out from the dining-room. The Miss Tay¬ 
lors grumbled something dreadful, but Ruby said 
it was me an’ I said it was her—we agreed to— 
an’ we both eat every single thing we could just 
to spite them. She didn’t care, because she was 
going to be married in January, an’ was leavin’ 
at the New Year anyway. An’ I knew they 
couldn’t get no one else, so I wasn’t going to leave 
just then—I thought it’d be unkind—an’ I prom¬ 
ised to stop on a bit. But Christmas fairly put 
the lid on. Boxing Day, Ruby was out, an’ I felt 
desprit, Christmas an’ all, and the war over, an’ 
my next brother killed, an’ nothing but a bit of 
stringy beef in the kitchen, and a pudding Ruby 


122 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


made as was something horrible. So when I took 
down their dinners, there was three mince-pies 
left on the dish: bought mince-pies with nice 
short pastry, an’—would you believe me, mum? 
—I eat 'em all three in under five minutes.” 

Margot paused again. This time, as one who 
has reached the dramatic climax after the tension. 

“I hope they didn’t disagree with you,” Mellory 
said, trying hard to keep her voice steady, for 
Margot’s expression was immensely serious. 

“I felt a bit frightened, for of course I ought 
to have left them in the pantry for Miss Con¬ 
stance; but I was sort of jolly, too. Right or 
wrong, I’d had my bit of Christmas, and felt all 
the better for it. When you’re the sort of shape 
I am, people seem to think you’re an old-fash¬ 
ioned piece, all for work and quietness and that. 
But for all I may have a dowdy sort of figure, 
I’m a modern girl inside, modern as any of ’em 
as shows half a yard of leg in silk stockings made 
from vegetables, an’ I like a bit of fun just the 
same. I don’t enjoy being set down all the time 
as a Maria-Jane, if I do happen to look like it.” 

“What happened about the mince-pies?” Mel¬ 
lory asked. 

“Well, mum, Miss Constance came down to 
lock them away like I said, an’ she came into 
the kitchen to ask me where I’d put them. So I 
told her, told her straight, an’ she was that taken 
to, for a minute she didn’t know what to say. 
But she soon came to, and miscalled me every¬ 
thing there was. She said I was a thief, an’ she 
was tired of my pilfering, and that she was sure 
now it was all me, and that Ruby was an honest 


THE SECRET HEART OF MARGOT 123 


girl. So then I was rude an’ said I was sick an’ 
tired of being starved, an’ I’d go that minute if 
they liked. An’ I did go the very next morning, 
without a month’s wages as were due to me all 
but two days; but of course they wouldn’t give 
it to me leavin’ in a hurry like that, an’ stood 
over me while I packed my box, an’ I’d barely 
enough to pay my taxi an’ get my ticket an’ send 
mother a telegram to say I was coming, for I’d 
sent her all I could spare for Christmas. But 
Ruby lent me ten shillings, an’ I sent it back 
to her the very minute I got home—mother gave 
it back to me. An’ I went and saw Mrs. Prescott, 
an’ told her very much what I’ve told you, mum, 
this minute, an’ she said she’d give me another 
reference directly I wanted it. I suppose I did 
steal, for I certainly kept taking things I wasn’t 
supposed to eat. But if it comes to that, the 
Miss Taylors stole, too, for they kept my wages 
an’ I’d worked hard for them. . . . But I 
wouldn’t like you to think, mum, that I want to 
be always eating, for I don’t. I was greedy there, 
but it was mostly contrariness. One is like that 
if everything’s kept under lock and key. At Eas- 
terhayes, when the rationing was strictest, we all 
had the same—kitchen, dinin’-room, nursery an’ 
all—an’ Mrs. Prescott was always worryin’ lest 
anybody shouldn’t have enough. She eat nothin’ 
hardly herself, and we’d all have died rather than 
took a thing we wasn’t meant to.” 

“1 suppose,” Mellory said, “we are always hurt 
when we aren’t trusted.” 

“That’s it, mum,” Margot agreed eagerly. “If 
you, now, had gone yourself to see about that 


124 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


drop of milk last night instead of sending me, 
I’d have felt it something awful . . . because the 
minute you came in I knew Mrs. Jones had been 
an’ said something about me. Though how she 
knows passes me.” 

“Margot, listen; let us forget all that unhappy 
hungry time. What I want is that you should 
get really strong and well, so as to go on helping 
me with little Joe. I want you to let my doctor 
see you, and then we’ll do whatever he tells us— 
for little Joe’s sake. His mother was just a girl 
like you, and it will be real good work to do your 
best for the baby she was obliged to leave. Mrs. 
Prescott told me how really clever you are about 
babies—and I’m so ignorant and anxious; and I 
think, perhaps, I can understand your feeling 
about not wanting to be set down as frumpy and 
old-fashioned better than most people, because, 
somehow, it was always expected of me, and I 
didn’t like it a bit better than you do.” 

“You, mum!” Margot exclaimed in astonish¬ 
ment. “I consider you’ve got beautiful clothes.” 

“Now, perhaps, they’re all right, but what 
we’ve all got to find out is that it doesn’t pay a 
bit to try and look like other people. We all 
want to when we’re young, whereas what we 
really ought to find out is what one looks well in, 
and then as far as possible stick to it. You are 
not the common type. You want something a 
bit different, but you could be made very charm- 
mg.” 

“Me —charming?” Margot repeated breath¬ 
lessly. 

“You’ll see,” Mellory said, “when we really set 


THE SECRET HEART OF MARGOT 125 


about it. If you help me so much with my little 
boy, you must let me help you with that—will 
you?” 

Margot’s eyes filled with slow, difficult tears 
that rolled down her white cheeks. 

“I’ll do anything in the world, mum, if only 
I could look a bit less of a Maria-Jane.” 

“Have you a young man, Margot?” 

“No, mum, not yet. Them as seemed to like 
me I don’t care about—and I’ll never,” she added, 
with sudden passion, “I’ll never walk out with 
anyone who walks out with me because I’m sen¬ 
sible. Sensible!” she repeated with scorn, “who 
cares for that?” 

More and more did Mellory’s heart go out to 
this girl. ... In her own youth there had been 
a young man working at the Oxford House who 
told her he admired her because she was “such a 
good daughter.” The anguish of that moment 
came back to her, and she leant forward and 
patted Margot’s shoulder. 

Margot took out her handkerchief and dried 
her eyes. “It’s kind of you to have listened, 
mum,” she said with a sudden return to her quiet 
respectful manner. “I’m not often own sister 
to a donkey like this, but I was worried about 
what that Mrs. Jones might have said, and I 
couldn’t abear for you to mistrust me. It’s 
partly the Maria-Jane feeling that’s made me so 
contrary about sewin’—I felt if I learnt to sew 
reely well there was no way out somehow. I’ll 
do anything else—I can wash beautiful. ...” 

“Oh, Margot, can you? Would you sometimes 
wash out little frocks and things for Joe?” 


126 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“Why, like a bird, mum. I’d love it if you 
wouldn’t mind keepin’ ’im. I used to do all 
Master Billy’s suits and little undies at Easter- 
hayes.” 

“I was wondering,” Mellory said humbly, 
“whether I could learn to do it—people are so 
hard to find.” 

Margot laughed. “If you’ll let me off the 
sewing, mum, I’ll wash for him if he was three 
little boys instead of one—the blessin’.” 


PART III 


THE CHILD 























I 


“HIMSELF” 

Should Joe, when he is grown up, ever become 
a great traveller: should he scale the Alps, the 
Andes, or even make the ascent of Mount 
Everest, no mountain will ever seem to him so 
towering and tremendous as the hill behind 
Thatches appeared to his infant gaze. First, you 
followed a path that sloped steeply through what 
he knew as the “tishin garden”; then through a 
gate; then by a grass path that sloped up and up 
to the wood where the fairies were. And just 
before you entered that green mysterious silence, 
you paused upon a little plateau and looked 
straight down upon the brown and green and 
yellow roof and the tall chimneys of the house 
itself. You could and did, if you were enter¬ 
prising, drop things straight on to the roof. A 
rattle with silver bells unaccountably broke. A 
cowslip ball was best. You saw it roll off the 
slope of the thatch and fall, and you retrieved it 
again later, and it told you secrets and smelt jolly, 
and was nice to cuddle when you had your mid¬ 
day sleep. 

The descent to the drive gate was adventurous, 
too, for the drive was straight and all the way 
you could see the road and the cottage, where on 
fine days the poor doctor sat in his wheel-chair 

129 


t 


130 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


on a patch of grass. There he could command 
both the drive and the road. The doctor loved 
greetings and would call to anyone that passed 
whom he knew. Sometimes even to people he 
didn’t know, who were rather surprised; but 
when they saw the wheel-chair, if they were nice 
people, they understood—and only road-hogs 
tearing by in expensive motors failed to return 
the doctor’s greeting. 

From the time he first sat up in his pram little 
Joe had been taught to wave to the doctor as he 
passed, and the doctor loved him and called him 
“Villikins,” because of the faithful Dinah who 
often rode in the pram too. 

Then there was “Mittis Jones,” who also rather 
liked him, for she knew he cost such a lot there 
was small likelihood of Mellory being able to 
afford a motor, and that therefore the question of 
the cottage was not likely to become acute. So 
sometimes she unbent to little Joe and showed 
him the kind face she kept for her husband. The 
doctor and Mrs. Jones were but two of the many 
minor constellations that shone in little Joe’s sky. 
Three people were the fixed stars in his firma¬ 
ment—Mell and Don and Margot. 

When little Joe began to talk, and he started 
early, Mellory went through much searching of 
the heart as to what he should call her. She 
wouldn’t have “mother,” for she felt that to 
let him call her that was in some way disloyal 
to Molly. “Mummy” she didn’t like; and 
“Mammy,” Joe, for some unknown reason, re¬ 
fused to say. They both tried to teach him to 
say “Godmother,” and he could say it quite dis-. 


“HIMSELF” 


131 


tinctly; but nothing would induce him to call her 
the whole of it. He would address her indiscrimi¬ 
nately as “god,” which was embarrassing, or as 
“mother,” which she adored, but felt she had no 
right to; but he preferred “god” because it was 
short. The whole word he turned down as clumsy 
and tiresome. Finally, hearing Cynthia call her 
“Mell,” he seized upon it, rolled it over and over 
on his tongue, and adopted it forthwith. 

After her failure with “godmother,” Mellory 
felt that it was safer not to attempt “godfather” 
just yet. So, when John Mill, frequently a guest 
at the Prescotts’, became a familiar personality 
to little Joe, who was learning dozens of new 
words every day, she tried to make him duly 
respectful and use the customary prefix. 

But Joe would have none of it. Once in a way, 
if carefully prompted till he was bored, he would 
consent to say “Mitta Mill”’—but all the time he 
was feeling “Why the Mitta?” when “Don” was 
so short and handy and endearing. He had heard 
Mrs. Prescott call him John, and had seized upon 
that nice short word at once. 

Don himself was not a pompous person who 
wanted ceremony in his relations with you. He 
treated you with delightful bonhomie and under¬ 
standing. So why, Joe felt, erect the intangible 
barrier of “Mitta” when neither he nor Don 
wanted it in the least? 

Besides, Mell wasn’t going to insist. Joe knew 
that. Very early had he learnt that when Mell 
was going to insist it was useless for the most 
wilful little boy to pit his strength against hers. 
On such occasions Mell was as a rock: a rock 


132 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


covered with velvet it is true, but a rock never¬ 
theless, and if you flung yourself against it hard 
enough, you got hurt. Mell would be sorry; but 
in an impersonal sort of way, quite different from 
the sorriness that compassed you about with 
comfort when you were hurt through no fault 
of your own. Mell always did what she said, 
and you found, sooner or later, that you also did 
what Mell said—it saved such a lot of trouble. 
By the time he was two, Joe, who was something 
of a philosopher, decided that it made for peace 
and pleasantness to fall in with Mell’s wishes 
when her quiet voice took on a certain tone. 
Margot, too, best of companions, incomparable 
historian of the doing of the numerous Pullin 
family, had a very few unbreakable rules and 
definite views as to what was merely “mishtiful” 
and what was “naughty.” And to have Margot 
withdraw herself into an offended silence, from 
wdiich no saga of the Pullin family could be ex¬ 
tracted, no nursery rhymes, and worst of all no 
legends of that hero of heroes, “Master Billy,” 
generally produced, if not repentance, at all 
events expressed repentance. He felt so starved 
and parched when Margot’s flow of enchanting 
reminiscences was cut off at the source, that he 
simply could not bear it. 

His first exploit, when he grew tired of lying 
on his back and kicking, was to roll over and 
over in the direction he wanted to go. Next he 
crawled so fast that it took any upright creature 
on two legs all her time to prevent violent con¬ 
cussions between his head and any impending 
furniture; and just before he was a year old he 


“HIMSELF” 


133 


rose upon his feet and set off joyfully to run 
round the nursery table. 

After that there was no holding him, for not 
only did he run, but climb. Gradually at 
Thatches all breakable objects mounted higher 
and higher, until there came to be an established 
level below which precious articles must not 
descend. 

A wooden gate was placed inside the nursery 
door. Another at the head of the stairs. The 
precautionary “pen,” so protective and useful in 
the case of most children, was no safeguard for 
Joe, as he swarmed up on the top bar and fell 
over on the other side. He was netted in his cot, 
and bars were fixed on the nursery windows which 
grievously spoiled the lovely view. 

It really seemed that the vigour and enterprise 
of his young parents were both concentrated and 
expended in the person of little Joe. He remained 
long and rather thin, but, as Margot would point 
out, “that firm” and muscular. A constantly 
chattering, inquisitive, restless, beloved and lov¬ 
ing little soul. 


II 


PEOPLE 

There was so much to see and hear and smell 
in the pleasant world of Thatches. 

Mell, for example, was soft and cuddly, with 
a necklace of white beads that were nice to feel. 
To be very close to Mell always brought to his 
mind a frame in the “tishin” garden where vio¬ 
lets grew, that came before any other flowers: 
big violets, much larger than those in the wood. 
When you sat on Mell’s knee and leant against 
her you remembered that frame, if only for a 
moment. 

Margot, too, had a nice lap, and if you leant 
your head against Margot it felt smooth and 
rather cold, like your pillow, only a bit harder. 
Margot smelt of brown Windsor soap. Sometimes 
her hands smelt of another soap—a funny soap 
in thin flakes that tasted horrid. You had tried 
it; so had Dinah, and Dinah liked it no better 
than you did. 

Don, now, was quite different. If you sat on 
Don’s knee and leant your head against him, he 
was rough and woolly—not scratchy exactly, but 
stimulating to the cheek, and the rough woolly 
stuff had a curious, curious smell. A bygone 
smell. Not the new smell of pipes or cigarettes, 
or the long brown cigars Zeff smoked, lit with a 

134 


PEOPLE 


135 


match you were allowed to blow out. The smell 
of Don’s coat was an old smell, and the coat itself 
was old, with leather at the elbows where they 
had worn out. Once Don took it off and Mell 
mended a pocket, because things fell out of it 
when he was playing ball with you on the lawn. 

Zeff, too, had that virile smell, though Zeff’s 
clothes were never old. Zeff was tall and thin, 
with sad eyes and a comical mouth, and he had 
a flair for the right sort of toys. Toys that did 
things over and over again, and didn’t break. 
When Joe felt very good and wanted to please 
Mell he called him “Uncoo Zeff,” but Simpie 
didn’t want to be called “Aunt Simpie,” and 
said so. 

On the whole Joe didn’t think much of aunts. 
There was Aunt Florence and Aunt Maude, who 
came sometimes and seemed to produce an atti¬ 
tude of deprecating timidity in Mell and of 
pursed-up indignation in Margot. And as at such 
times Joe saw much less of Mell than at any 
others, he registered a grudge against them, and 
gave aunts in general a miss. 

Mothers puzzled Joe. 

Mell’s mother sat in her picture over the 
“drawmin” fireplace. A beautiful little old lady 
with lace over her white hair. That was one 
mother, and she was very, very old. 

Another mother looked out from a round frame 
over the nursery fireplace. Just a face with short 
hair round it, nearly as short as Joe’s own, and 
large, merry eyes. 

That was his own mother, and she was very, 
very young. 


136 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 

There were two pictures in round frames. A 
friend of Mell’s had done pastels from the photo¬ 
graphs. In the other picture was a man’s head. 
A soldier man, not in the least like Don or Zeff 
or the doctor. That was his father. 

He didn’t miss his mother. He didn’t want 
her, but Mell seemed to think he must give her 
a thought now and then, or she might feel hurt. 

It was one of Mell’s peculiarities that she was 
so afraid of hurting people; and the awkward 
thing was—if you happened to hurt other people 
you seemed to hurt Mell worse, and that simply 
couldn’t be done. 

So night and morning Joe kissed his hand to 
the young mother in the one round frame and 
’tluted the young soldier father in the other. 

Mell’s father sat in the picture over the 
“dimin” fireplace. He, too, was very old. 

Then there was a quite invisible person called 
“Our Father” (no picture, even, of Him), with 
Whom one had a short, stereotyped, one-sided 
conversation night and morning, just before you 
greeted the portrait. You knelt down and 
clasped your hands and screwed up your eyes, 
and Mell was generally there to prompt you. 

It was solemn and hushified, but it seemed to 
please Mell and Margot quite enormously, and 
they loved you and kissed you excessively 
afterwards. 

All these relationships were puzzling. Mar¬ 
got’s were concrete and satisfactory. 

“Mother,” with her, meant a substantial, com¬ 
fortable, real woman, whose garments creaked. 


PEOPLE 


137 


whose face was shiny and red, who smelt strongly 
of yet another kind of soap, and whose hospitable 
teas provided quite new delicacies, such as cheese 
and “sping onions.” 

Somehow Mell knew what you’d had the 
minute you came back, before you had time to 
tell her. 

Margot’s father, too, was no mere picture. He 
was a large man, who spoke in a deep rumbling 
voice. He lifted you right up on to the back 
of an enormous horse, one of the young Pullins 
got up behind you to hold you there, and then, 
breathless and ecstatic, you actually rode this 
magnificent animal right down the road and into 
one of Mitta Prescott’s fields. 

“Mrs. Pullin’s Home” was a place of marvels. 
It was sad that it should be three long miles 
from Thatches and necessitated the hire of a 
pony trap to get there; but there were compen¬ 
sations even in that—for the man who owned 
the pony let you hold the end of the reins. 


Ill 


BEEKINETWIT 

Margot could sing—hymns, nursery rhymes, 
and all kinds of songs. Mell, too, occasionally 
would sing in a faint, far-away voice. But sing¬ 
ing was not Mell’s forte. Her gift lay in quite 
another sphere of music. She could do wonderful 
things with the long, queerly-shaped table in 
the “drawmin,” that was a box as well, and 
excellent to camp under when one played houses. 
Her hands flew over the black and white notes, 
and it was glorious. Big sounds like a band. 
Sounds that stirred the heart of a little boy till 
his feet felt like flying. It was odd that Mell 
could get these infinitely various and delightful 
results. Such rolling, rippling, twinkling min¬ 
strelsy, sometimes, as though it were raining 
stars. Whereas, if little Joe, sitting on Mell’s 
knee, tried to do it, too, he could only touch one 
note at a time, with a poor thin, inconsequent 
result that was both baffling and ineffectual. 
Then he took both fists to it and brought them 
down with a bang that hurt his hands but didn’t 
sound a bit nicer. And Mell caught his hands 
away and held them, saying: “Oh, no, darling, you 
mustn’t do that. You must be gentle; be kind 
to it; not rough like that. 

Mell took one of his fingers and guided it, 

138 


BEEKINETWIT 


139 


touching one note after another till gradually in 
a little high voice the piano sang the tune of 
“Three Blind Mice/’ 

Wonderful and delicious that his own finger 
could evoke “Three Blind Mice.” 

“Adain!” he shouted, and they did it again 
and again till Margot came to fetch him to bed. 

In dreams he sat on Mell’s knee and spread 
his hands over the black and white keys and 
produced ravishing melodies all by himself. 

Next day was Margot’s afternoon off, but he 
couldn’t go out with Mell because it was raining 
hard. So Mell played with him in the nursery, 
and proposed to build a house with the beautiful 
stone bricks that Don had given him. 

“No,” said Joe firmly, “see Beekinetwit.” 

“See what?” Mell asked. 

“See Beekinetwit,” Joe repeated firmly. 

Mell looked puzzled. “I’m afraid,” she said, 
“that I don’t know what you mean.” 

“See Beekinetwit!” Joe said more loudly. 
“Come.” 

But Mell sat where she was on the floor, and 
started to build with the bricks. 

“See Beekinetwit,” Joe repeated, in a sort of 
bellow. He was not quite two years old, and he 
expected and generally got instant comprehension, 
even if he didn°t always get what he wanted. 

V 

Mell still looked perplexed. “Darling, what is 
Beekinetwit?—and you mustn’t shout like that.” 

“Will shout,” Joe repeated obstinately. “ See 
Beekinetwit.” 

Mellory shook her head. 


140 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“Get up!” he bawled, bursting into tears. 
“Don’t tay here. Come and see Beekinetwit.” 

“Can you show me the thing?” Mellory asked, 
as she rose from her knees. “It’s silly to cry 
when I don’t understand. Take me to this Bee¬ 
kinetwit if it’s in the house.” 

Joe paused in his grief. Bunches of tears hung 
on his lashes, but he held out his arms forgivingly 
to Mell, and she took him up. 

“Now,” she said. 

“Drawmin,” Joe answered, with the end of a 
sob. 

When they reached the drawmin she set him 
down and he ran to the piano. 

“Open Beekinetwit,” he commanded. 

“That’s the piano,” Mell said as she obeyed. 

“Not piano,” Joe said firmly. “You said,” he 
continued reproachfully, “ ‘gentoo Beekinetwit,’ 
an’ I did gentoo ’im—now.” 

So it remained Beekinetwit, for it was a much 
fairyer name than piano.. 


IV 


THE NECKLACE 

It was Beekinetwit that was indirectly respon¬ 
sible for the breaking of Mell’s pearl necklace. 

The very next afternoon—it was in late Sep¬ 
tember—Joe was spending his usual hour with 
Mellory after tea, and Beekinetwit was called 
upon to make music. 

First, Mell played and Joe and Dinah danced. 
Next, Joe sat on Mell’s knee, and, helped by her 
guiding hand, was triumphantly picking out the 
tune of “Ding, Dong, Bell,” when who should 
come over to call but Don. 

Now as a rule Joe was delighted to see Don, 
but on this particular occasion it interfered with 
his recital on Beekinetwit, for Mell put him off 
her knee and went and sat down by the fire with 
Don. Joe went, too, and duly greeted Don, but 
returned at once to Beekinetwit. He reached up 
and really tried to be gentoo, and struck only 
one note at a time very softly till, suddenly, he 
happened upon the bass; and the depth and 
resonance of A natural below the stave gave him 
such an exquisite pleasure that he went on sound¬ 
ing it—louder and louder till Mell and Don could 
hardly hear themselves speak. 

“That will do, Joe, dear,” Mell said gently. 
“Don’t play any more just now.” 

141 


142 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


Joe pretended not to hear, continuing his solo 
on the most sonorous bass notes, and took no 
notice. Neither, surprisingly, did Mell, and he 
was too absorbed to notice that she had rung the 
bell—rung twice. 

Margot appeared. 

“Please take Master Joe to the nursery,” Mell 
said. 

Margot crossed the room to get him while Joe 
rushed over to Mellory, flung himself upon her, 
and clasped her round the neck. 

“No, no!” he cried, “he will tay.” 

Mell tried to detach his hands and Margot 
came to take him. She picked him up, and he 
made one despairing grab at Mellory’s pearls 
just at the moment that Margot lifted him. He 
clung to the necklace, gave it a tremendous jerk, 
and it broke, scattering the pearls all over the 
room. 

With an exclamation of pain Mellory put up 
her hand to the back of her neck, where the clasp 
had almost cut into the flesh, and went down on 
her knees to start collecting the scattered pearls, 
while Margot carried off the now loudly wailing 
Joe. 

As his cries died away in the distance, Mellory, 
groping about the floor and gathering busily, said, 
without raising her head: “I’m so sorry; he really 
isn’t often naughty like that, and I feel it’s partly 
my own fault. Cynthia always told me I ought 
to have a knot between each.” 

No answer. 

Surprised, she raised her head and looked up 
to find John Mill standing and staring down at 


THE NECKLACE 143 

her with a flushed face and a queer, startled look 
in his eyes. 

“There are one hundred and fifty-seven alto¬ 
gether/’ she went on. “You wouldn’t think there 
were so many in such a little necklace, would 
you?” 

“No; yes; really—so many?” John remarked, 
with extraordinary inconsequence. Then he, too, 
went down on his knees and grovelled for pearls. 

In spite of the bad light they found them all 
but one, and that the parlourmaid discovered 
next day lodged on one of the castors of Bee- 
kinetwit. 

After he had gone Mellory wondered if John 
had something on his mind. He seemed so 
dreamy, and he didn’t show his usual interest 
in little Joe. It was an unsatisfactory call, and 
she was sorry, for John was returning to town 
next day. 


V 


FANTASIES, FAITH, AND FRIENDS 

Those serious ones who protest against nursery 
rhymes and fairy stories as food for the infant 
mind would certainly have disapproved of little 
Joe’s earliest literary training; for his mental life 
was garlanded by imagination. 

There was to him nothing unlikely in the 
statement that “the little dog laughed to see such 
sport” or “the cow jumped over the moon.” 
He’d seen Dinah laugh dozens of times when 
they played together, rolling over and over on 
the grass. Dinah had her toys as well as Joe, and 
wasn’t a whit more generous or gentle with them. 
And as for cows jumping over the moon, he’d seen 
cows galumphing in a field, and a little more in 
the way of agility was quite easy to picture. 

As regards fairies, it’s true he hadn’t seen one 
yet, when his eyes were open—Mell declared you 
could only see fairies when your eyes were shut— 
but he’d looked for them times without number in 
Canterbury bells and foxgloves, and when he 
“popped” a fuchsia there was always the exciting 
prospect that he might find one asleep inside. 

It was unquestionable that they abounded all 
round Thatches, for he’d seen their ballrooms on 
the grass, clearly marked in perfect rounds. If 

144 


FANTASIES, FAITH AND FRIENDS 145 

only he could keep awake some moonlight night 
and go out and catch them at it! 

When his eyes were shut he could see them 
perfectly. He often did, just as he was going to 
sleep; but could never get quite near enough to 
talk to one. 

Mell had endless books of rhymes and stories, 
all with the joiliest pictures; but Margot knew 
some songs that were not in any of the books. 
One old Garsetshire song (she was rather ashamed 
of it really, but Joe was so persistent she had to 
teach it to him) had a delightful lilting tune with 
a chorous that was particularly easy to sing. It is 
a thoroughly ruthless and hard-hearted ballad 
with no moral whatsoever, and that perhaps is 
why it appealed to little Joe: 

“There wer’ an old couple an’ they was poor, 

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! 

There wer’ an old couple an’ they was poor; 

They lived in a ’ouse without ere a door, 

For a very poor couple was they. 

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! 

“Th’ old man ’e went out one day, 

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! 

Th’ old man ’e went out one day; 

Th’ old 'oman she were afraid to stay, 

For a very weak ’oman was she. 

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! 

“'Oh! I’ve been ill since you’ve been gone/ 

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! 

'Oh, I’ve been ill since you’ve been gone; 

If you’d bin in the yard, you’d ’ave ’erd I groan’ 

T am sorry for that/ says ’e. 

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! 


146 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“ Ther’s one thing I requests of thee/’ 

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! 

Ther’s one thing I requests of thee: 

Go get I an apple from yonder tree, 

For a very fine tree be he.’ 

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! 

“Th’ old man ’e went up the tree, 

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! 

Th’ old man ’e went up the tree; 

She pulled the ladder an’ down feel he. 

That was very well done/ says she. 

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! 

Margot, who as a rule prided herself on “talk¬ 
ing nice,” let herself go in this ditty, and sang 
it in broadest Garsetshire as her grandfather had 
sung it to her; and Joe imitated her with admira¬ 
ble accuracy. 

One of her favourite sayings was, “Better you 
had never been born than cut your toe-nails on 
a Sunday morn,” and however old Joe may live 
to be he never will. But if dire consequences 
followed upon the Sunday shearing, if you cut 
your toe-nails on a Monday morn before ten 
o’clock you get a present before the week is out. 
Joe found this quite infallible, for no week went 
by without somebody giving him something, and 
Margot always would say triumphantly: “There’s 
your toe-nails present, you see!” He was disap¬ 
pointed if they didn’t grow sufficiently to need 
cutting on Mondays. 

He loved going into Mell’s bed in the early 
morning while Margot lit the nursery fire and got 
his bath; for then he and Mell had serious secret 
talks about the pictures in her room. There was 


FANTASIES, FAITH AND FRIENDS 147 

a place called Heaven, it seemed, as well as fairy¬ 
land; and angels as well as fairies. Her father 
and mother and his father and mother had gone 
to live in Heaven, and two of the angels in the 
pictures in Mell’s room were fat little boys play¬ 
ing, respectively, on a mandolin and a trumpet. 
These little angels, he remarked, were “muts 
fatter nor me.” There was a fat, cheerful baby, 
too, in a blue lady’s arms, the Holy Baby whose 
after-life was so beneficent and sad. Mell told 
him a lot about that, and Margot made him sing 
a hymn about a gentle Shepherd; and that, too, 
he could understand, for he knew Mitta Prescott’s 
shepherd, and a very kind man he was; and lambs 
were adorable animals that peopled the fields in 
spring. He had a lamb of his own on a green 
stand with little wheels, and when you pulled its 
head it baa’d deliciously. 

A crucifix hung over Mell’s bed, and she ex¬ 
plained about that, too, and he was very sad for 
a short time, but cheered up at the thought that 
the kind Christ upon it was in Heaven, too, with 
the fathers and mothers and the blue lady and 
little fat angels. He hadn’t the least desire to go 
there himself yet. Not for ages. There was so 
much to see and do at Thatches. It was agree¬ 
able, however, to think that all the picture people 
were there—wherever it was—happy and com¬ 
fortable. 

There was a book Mell used to show him that 
he called “Ammals Book,” full of beautiful 
coloured prints of all manner of birds and beasts 
—a regular Noah’s Ark of a book—and he learnt 
the names of them all. There was “Tyger! 


148 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


Tyger! burning bright/’ just like the skin on the 
drawmin floor, only much fiercer; and black 
bears and brown bears, and lions like the one 
on the Royal Arms, but no unicorns—not in that 
book. 

In his wholesale dismissal of aunts as unworthy 
to enter the innermost circle of his affections he 
made one exception—Aunt Helena at Hove. 

To Joe, when he first saw her, she seemed 
incalculably old and fragile, and remote even to 
fearsomeness. A tiny old lady, with lace over 
her hair like Mell’s mother in the picture, who 
sat in a great armchair, and a footstool with a 
parrot on it, under her little feet in satin shoes. 

You might never make any real noise in front 
of Aunt Helena. You had to speak softly and 
move slowly, and you must answer any question 
she asked you instantly and fully. If you made 
her laugh you knew that you were a success. 

Gradually the little chill of fear engendered by 
a first sight of Aunt Helena left you, for you 
realised that she was much more afraid of you 
than you were of her, and that she was even 
more anxious to please you, than Mell was that 
you should please Aunt Helena. Somehow, too, 
you discovered that she was very fond of Mell, 
and that was a bond of union. 

She wore a lot of little silver chains hanging 
from her waist. All kinds of interesting things 
were fastened to them, such as a pencil that 
screwed in and out, a little pair of scissors, a 
silver knife; and she would let you fiddle with 
them as you stood by her chair if you didn’t 
pull too hard. A little gold box hung on one of 


FANTASIES, FAITH AND FRIENDS 149 

the chains, shaped like a large walnut. No one 
could open this box but Aunt Helena herself, and 
when she opened it she would produce what she 
called “comfits,” which tasted sweet and had a 
sort of little seed inside. Moreover, she would 
tell one story, a long, lovely story about a valor¬ 
ous pig which by its superior subtlety defeated 
the evil machinations of a wolf. In this story 
there was a constantly recurring phrase which Joe 
adored—‘Til huff and Ill puff till I blow your 
house down.” Aunt Helena told this story with 
great humour and dramatic art. 

Perhaps the thing that really set a seal on 
Aunt Helena’s liking for little Joe was the fact 
that when he said good-night to her he kissed 
her hand. 

The first time he was told to say good-night 
and go, he was rather puzzled what he ought to 
do. She was leaning back in her great high- 
backed chair and he couldn’t reach her face, and 
she made no motion to stoop towards him. One 
of her thin old hands, very white and small, was 
lying on the arm of the chair, and it seemed the 
easiest bit of Aunt Helena to get at. So Joe 
bowed his head and gave it a good smacking kiss, 
and ran across to the door where Margot was 
waiting for him. When he had gone A mt Helena 
lifted her hand slowly and looked at it, and then 
she gave it another kiss, just where Joe had laid 
his. After that she always gave him her hand to 
kiss when he said good-night. 

In Aunt Helena’s immense drawmin, there were 


150 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


two Beekinetwits. A large one, bigger even than 
Mell’s at Thatches, and another not quite so big. 
Mell and Aunt Helena used to play at the same 
time and it made a tremenjous noise. It was 
astonishing what force was in Aunt Helena’s old 
hands when it came to dealing with Beekinetwit. 
The sounds they made came right through the 
thick doors and high ceilings of that solemn house. 

Once in a way he was allowed to come right 
in and hear them, but it was a privilege he didn’t 
much appreciate, for they didn’t play lively tuney 
music such as Mell played to him when she 
played alone. 

Some times other old ladies and genpoomen 
came to listen to them, and on Joe’s second visit, 
when he was nearly three, Aunt Helena sent for 
him to come down just before tea, even though 
i* was a party. Margot dressed him in a clean 
white tunic and knickers, and clean white socks 
and white square-toed shoes, and brushed and 
washed and pulled and smoothed him till he was 
almost cross with Margot. Then she led him to 
the drawmin door, listened a moment, opened it 
gently and pushed him in. And at the very 
moment she closed the door again, the two Bee¬ 
kinetwits struck up together. Mell was playing 
on one of them from music, her eyes glued to the 
page, and a gentleman with bobbed hair was 
playing on the other, while a crowd of people sat 
around on various seats and settees. 

Aunt Helena had closed her eyes, and was 
gently beating time on the arm of her chair to 
the very dull tune they were playing. Joe knew 
he couldn’t open the door and escape, for it was 


FANTASIES, FAITH AND FRIENDS 151 

such a large handle. He had tried it before. He 
was certain he mustn’t make a sound of any 
sort—Mell had impressed on him that he must 
never, never speak when there was music at Aunt 
Helena’s. He was quite aware that when you 
came into a room full of people, you ought to 
greet them, but how can you if you mayn’t say 
“How do you do?” or “I hope your cold is better,” 
or “Have you any little boys?” 

There he stood: a small, slim, upright, white 
figure, silhouetted against the olive-green door 
picked out with gold. His fair head held high, 
and his eager eyes travelling round the company. 
Suddenly, right behind three old gentlemen, he 
saw Don and waved joyously. Don beckoned 
to him, and he tiptoed across like Jack when he 
stole the giant’s hen, and snuggled delightedly 
on Don’s knee. 

The two Beekinetwits went on and on with 
what, had Joe but known it, Don was inwardly 
calling their “damnable iteration.” Oh, for 
simply ages they went on, till at last Joe could 
bear it no longer and whispered: “Will it soon be 
finished?” Don whispered back, but not very 
hopefully: “Surely it must be, soon.” 

Joe thought of the beloved Dinah, whom he 
missed inexpressibly. When Dinah was tired 
of music she lifted up her voice and howled. 

Still it went on and on like somebody trying 
to say the same thing over and over again in 
every possible sort of way. 

Presently Joe noticed that Mell was playing 
from a large fat book. 

“Will she have to play it all?” he whispered. 


152 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“Oh, no,” John murmured close at his ear, but 
he looked depressed, “that would take hours.” 

At last it ended. Mell got off the piano-stool, 
so did the gentleman with the bobbed hair. 
There were polite murmurs and then, as some¬ 
times happens even in musical circles, a sudden 
momentary silence. 

“Please, Aunt Helena,” exclaimed a high clear 
voice, “can me and Don go and play upstairs?” 

Every day, unless it was raining, Aunt Helena 
went out along the sea front in an even larger 
pram than the one Joe had at Thatches. In 
Hove he had a little go-cart. An old man pulled 
her, and Mell walked by her side. Sometimes, 
if they met Joe and Margot they would stop for 
a few minutes, and Joe, who always walked if he 
possibly could, felt very grand that he should 
be doing so, while a lady so much older than he 
sat in a pram. It seems that on the morning of 
the musical at-home, Mell and Aunt Helena met 
Don on the front, but Joe didn’t, because he 
and Margot had gone much further down to 
where the donkeys were. 

Aunt Helena invited Don to come in the 
afternoon, and after that he came several times 
to see Joe. It rained and rained as sometimes it 
will, even at Hove, and the Beekinetwits were 
kept busy, but Don crept up past the drawmin 
door to Joe’s quarters, and showed him pictures 
in a delightful book that Mell had found, the 
Graphic pictures of Randolph Caldecott. It was 
large and flat and nice to lay on the floor; and 
when Don came, Margot would go away and talk 


FANTASIES, FAITH AND FRIENDS 153 

to Paine where she sat mending Aunt Helena’s 
lace in a little room on the same floor. 

There was one set of pictures that Joe adored, 
the adventures of two friends who go for a driving 
tour in a dogcart with a tandem. The friends 
were called Bent and Mill, and the surnames 
gave a dashing air to the story, which developed 
into a serial as long as the pieces played on the 
two Beekinetwits. 

“And what did Bent do then?” 

“And did the jiggy horse love Bent?” 

“Was Bent’s whip really as long as that?” 

Bent always drove, Mill declaring himself in¬ 
capable. Mill blew a horn to let people know 
they were coming, and occasionally ran to the 
leader’s head when it turned round and looked 
at the wheeler. 

Sometimes he paid for the lunch at an hotel; 
but otherwise, in theatrical parlance, Bent had 
“all the fat” and was a tremendous fellow. 

Perhaps it was that he was rather missing Mell, 
for he didn’t get nearly as much of her as at 
Thatches, that one day it struck Joe that she was 
left out in this story, and his conscience smote 
him. He demanded a new story in which Mell 
should accompany Bent and Mill upon their 
driving tour. She wasn’t in the Graphic pictures, 
but that didn’t matter. By this time he knew 
those pictures by heart, and it was the easiest 
thing possible to imagine Mell in the dogcart. 

“Where would she sit?—in the back seat?” 

“Oh, dear, no,” Don said; “she must sit in the 
front seat. Ladies always do.” 


154 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“Ven you must sit in the back.” 

“Not at all,” Don remarked firmly. “I’m going 
to drive.” 

“But you said,” Joe exclaimed, with uplifted 
finger, “that you couldn’t jive.” 

“I’ve learnt since then,” Don said airily. “I 
could drive a tandem down Piccadilly now.” 

“Where sail Bent sit? On Mell’s knee?” 

“Good gracious, no! He’s far too big for that. 
He must take the back seat. 

“The back seat!” Joe repeated, in astonish¬ 
ment. 

“The back seat,” Don persisted, “but,” relent¬ 
ing, “Bent will jump down and open all the gates 
for us, and when the leader is very obstreperous, 
Bent will go and talk to him and soothe him. 
He’s an awfully handy chap is Bent.” 

“You’re sure Mill can jive?” 

“I’m certain. Now we’re off, Miss Upton . . .” 

“No, not ’Supton—Mell,” Joe interrupted. 

“Off we go down the drive, Mell waves her 
hand to Dr. and Mrs. Jones as we turn that diffi¬ 
cult corner by the gate, and we go trotting down 
the road and Bent blows the horn. . . .” 

“Bent keeps the whip, doesn’t he?” 

“I think not. The driver must have the whip, 
you see, because he’s driving and . . . Bent’s 
sitting in the back seat.” 

“Are you kite sure?” 

“Positive.” 

“Don’t you think,” Joe asked beseechingly, 
“that there might be a teeny weeny accident?” 

“Not with Mell on board, not for worlds.” 

When the Beekinetwits ceased clamouring, 


FANTASIES, FAITH AND FRIENDS 155 

Margot came back and Don had to go downstairs 
to pay his respects to Aunt Helena. The story 
had been entrancing as ever, but when Don had 
gone, for the space of two minutes little Joe 
looked pensive. He wasn’t quite sure about that 
back seat. 





















PART IV 


THE MAN 






* 








I 


COMING EVENTS 

Three o’clock in the afternoon of John Mill’s 
last day at Brighton, and he was rather at a 
loose end. 

He had declined to accompany his friend to 
bridge at his club. It was too early to go and 
look up little Joe—besides he’d been to see Joe 
yesterday, and even the most devoted godfather 
can hardly call upon his godson every day in a 
strange house. Being honest, even with himself, 
John knew perfectly well that it was not the 
desire to see little Joe that was making him so 
restless and unsettled. 

Was it, he wondered, because for the first time 
in nearly twenty-six years, his spare time was his 
own? And although he still worked at the Pen¬ 
sions Board, and continued a good deal of other 
voluntary work, he seemed occasionally to have 
more time on his hands than he quite knew what 
to do with. 

Foreign travel? 

Not unless he could get hold of a congenial 
friend to go with him. Besides, hadn’t Pamela 
said something about Switzerland for Christmas? 
But whether he decided later on to leave England 
or not, he must get out of that comfortable chair 
in his friend’s dining-room and take some exercise 

159 


160 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


at once. So he left the house in Steyne Gardens 
and drifted, as everyone does drift in Brighton, 
on to the sea front, and started to walk towards 
Hove. 

He argued with himself that it would really 
be more interesting to go towards Kemp Town, 
but his feet turned firmly in the direction of Hove, 
and he let them have their way. 

The afternoon was gusty, showery, and rapidly 
darkening, but the air was mild and delicious. It 
was high tide and quite big waves tossed showers 
of foam up on to the front. 

John was long-sighted out of doors, though he 
couldn’t read without glasses, and kept a sharp 
look-out for everyone ahead of him. Sometimes 
he turned around and looked back—one nearly 
always met an acquaintance of some sort on 
the front, he told himself, and he was sociably 
inclined. 

The front was by no means crowded, and people 
grew sparser as he reached the beginning of the 
Hove Lawns. 

Then he caught sight of a lady reading a letter, 
sitting all alone on one of those seats with a 
sheltering back. 

“Oh, I am so glad to see you,” Mellory ex¬ 
claimed. “Are you afraid to sit down? It isn’t 
really cold, is it? Aunt Helena is resting, and 
Margot has taken Joe to the pier in a bus, with a 
bag full of coppers to try all the automatic ma¬ 
chines. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to 
walk?” 


COMING EVENTS 161 

“I’d like to sit here if I’m not interrupting 
you. Won’t you finish your letter?” 

“I’ve read it several times . . . and I’m rather 
worried. . . . May I tell you about it?” 

“Please do.” 

Mellory tapped the letter with her finger. “It’s 
from cook—but I’d better begin at the begin¬ 
ning. Did I mention that when I knew we were 
to be here for a whole month I let a friend have 
the house?” 

John shook his head. “I’ve hardly seen you 
. . . never except in a crowd, and musical after¬ 
noons don’t leave much time for conversa¬ 
tion. . . 

“No, they don’t, do they? But I do enjoy 
the music—I seldom get any really good music 
at Thatches.” 

“Except what you make yourself,” John said 
politely. “But about the house?” 

“Well, just as I’d promised to go to Aunt 
Helena I got a letter from a woman I knew in the 
munition factory—she was one of the super¬ 
visors: not very efficient, poor thing, but quite 
nice—and she told me how dreadfully difficult it 
was to find rooms, everything so expensive and 
so crowded, and did I know of anything? And of 
course, I didn’t, when it flashed upon me: ‘Why 
shouldn’t she have the house while Joe and I 
were away?’ There were the servants—such good 
maids they are—and they’d both had their holi¬ 
days. Her food would cost only a little extra; it 
would be better than leaving them idle all the 
time, and do a kindness to her ... so I wrote 


162 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


and suggested it . . . and she was ever so de¬ 
lighted and grateful . . Mellory paused. 

a And has she/' John asked, judging by fre¬ 
quent domestic upheavals in his sister’s house¬ 
hold, “falien out with the cook?” 

“No . . Mellory said indecisively, “not 
exactly; but I must explain. . . . She—Mrs. 
Boase, that’s her name—said she had a great 
many ‘precious possessions,’ and would I let her 
keep a few of them at Thatches while I was 
away, as she hated to be parted from them, and 
storing is so costly. . . . Well, there’s the garage 
almost empty, you know, and I thought if it was 
just a few boxes . . 

Again Mellory paused. “I really don’t know 
what to do about it,” she continued, “and I don’t 
see how I could have divined it. . . .” 

“But what has happened? She hasn’t brought 
a van-load of furniture, has she?” 

“Listen. This is what cook says: ‘The lady 
came the day after you left, as arranged. The 
motor from Marlehouse met her according to 
your orders, but she couldn’t get all her boxes on 
it, and the rest came next day in the railway van. 
We put the larger ones in the garage, like you 
said, but an American orgum that came by goods 
Mrs. Boase said couldn’t go in the garage for fear 
of damp. So it’s been put in the dining-room till 
your return. The lady gives very little trouble, 
and practises a great deal on the ’armonium, 
mostly sacred music, and sings as well.’ ” 

She turned tragic eyes on John, repeating: 
“Mostly sacred music, and sings as well.” 

“Surely it seems rather absurd to bring all that 


COMING EVENTS 163 

stuff for a month? Does she always travel about 
with an American ‘orgum’?” 

“I don’t know how she travels,” Mellory said 
despairingly, “but what I fear is that all this 
luggage means she doesn’t want to travel again 
for a considerable time.” 

“You mean that she has dumped herself and 
her belongings on you?” 

“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” 

“But I thought it was clearly understood that 
you lent her the house just for the time you were 
away.” 

“But if she doesn’t offer to go when I get back 
—what am I to do?” 

“Say you need her room, of course. You prob¬ 
ably will.” 

“It isn’t easy,” she said dolefully, “to tell people 
you want their rooms, especially when you know 
they’re homeless and not well off.” 

“Who is this Mrs. Boase? I don’t remember 
hearing you speak of her.” 

“She’s the widow of a clergyman. I gather he 
was a very Evangelical clergyman, and he was 
delicate and had a long illness. She was most 
devoted to him, and she is a kind creature . . . 
but I don’t want her to stop on and on. I really 
don’t.” 

“Then you must say so. Be firm.” 

“That’s just what I’m not. I’m awfully weak 
and flabby.” 

“Not a bit of it. You’ve got a will of iron when 
you choose to assert it. You never give in to 
Joe when you think he ought to be made to do 
what he’s told. I’ve been surprised at your de- 


164 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


termination often. People are generally so weak 
about children now.” 

“That’s different. It wouldn’t be fair to Joe 
to let him grow up tiresome and horrid. Besides, 
everyone always says a boy brought up by a 
lone woman must be a failure, and I want to 
prove them wrong.” 

“Would it be fair to this Mrs. Boase to let her 
make herself a nuisance?” 

"It’s different. I’m not responsible for Mrs. 
Boase. . . 

“That’s just what I’m trying to point out. So 
far as I can see, there is no earthly reason why 
she should quarter herself upon you a minute 
after the time agreed upon. Can’t you suggest 
she should depart before you come back?” 

“I couldn’t do that. It would hurt her dread¬ 
fully. She wants to see me.” 

“Well, write and fix a time. Say you hope 
she’ll stay till the twentieth, or whatever it is . . . 
but for heaven’s sake be definite.” 

Her face cleared. “I might do that,” she 
said, more cheerfully; “that wouldn’t be unkind 
or rude. You know,” she added confidentially, 
“I don’t think I could bear the American ‘orgum’ 
for long . . . and suppose she sings The Lost 
Chord’! . . . Do you like hymns? 

John laughed. “Not constant hymns, anyway.” 

“You see,” she went on, “the doctor has now 
got a gramophone, and it’s a very loud one. I 
hear it always as I go up and down the drive, 
even with his windows shut; but what will it be 
in summer with all the windows open?” 

“Come for a walk,” he said, “and forget these 


COMING EVENTS 165 

worries. It’s growing chilly, and you mustn’t sit 
here any more.” 

They walked half-way to Shoreham, and it was 
almost dark when they returned. She did ask 
John to come in when they reached the solemn 
house in Grand Avenue, but, rather to her relief, 
he said he must go back to his friend. 

Yet, when the solemn house had swallowed her 
up, he did nothing of the kind. He went down 
to the deserted front again, and paced up and 
down in the dark till it was time to go back to 
Steyne Gardens to change for dinner. 

For once in a way John was thinking about 
himself—trying to visualise himself as he might 
appear to outsiders; weighing himself in the bal¬ 
ance of the world’s opinion. Furthermore, he 
endeavouring to analyse his own state of mind, 
which was stirred and shaken to an unusual de¬ 
gree. And although he was in this unaccustomed 
fashion thinking of himself and his own disturb¬ 
ing emotions, he was doing so chiefly that he 
might discover how the world’s opinion of John, 
and how that essential John of whom it knew so 
little, might affect someone else. 

The salient fact in the situation was this—that 
since his undergraduate days, when he had fallen 
in and out of love as often and as light-heartedly 
as his contemporaries, he had had no time to culti¬ 
vate women. Literally and actually no time. 

He certainly thought about them sometimes; 
and he used to read a great many novels with 
great enjoyment, generally in bed at night when 
he had sufficiently entertained his parents. He 
even read French novels, and though his literary 


166 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


taste was pleased by their subtle analysis of char¬ 
acter, and his pulse stirred by their sensuous 
charm, he never failed to feel a sort of whimsical 
amusement at the enormous amount of leisure 
for amorous adventure their heroes always seemed 
to find. Whereas he knew that circumstances may 
so constrain a man that such adventures simply 
don’t come within the scope of possibility. 

He never questioned that, outside the work 
which meant their daily bread, his job was to 
look after his old parents and make their last 
years as happy as possible. Sometimes, when his 
spirit rebelled against the monotony of his exist¬ 
ence, he saw them quite clearly, and the pathos 
of them could not wholly obscure their inepti¬ 
tude ; but that never made him less whole-hearted 
in his devotion to them. 

Such women as he knew, his sisters and their 
contemporaries, his nieces and their friends, 
confided in John to a surprising extent. He was 
so sympathetic, and he never gave advice unless 
it were positively dragged out of him. He knew 
that they all, middle-aged and young alike, looked 
upon him as one set apart by fate entirely outside 
the possibility of any relation even bordering 
upon the sentimental. 

“John is a predestined celibate,” his sister had 
once said of him in his hearing. “If he’d lived in 
the middle ages he’d have been a monk.” 

During the war he had less time than ever, and 
was filled with the futile bitterness that almost 
overwhelmed such elderly men as were sincerely 
convinced that their very existence was bought 
by the supreme sacrifice of youth. 


COMING EVENTS 


167 


Then he came across Mellory and little Joe 
in that odd way, and a new interest lighted up 
and filled the rather dark and empty room life 
had become. 

From the very first he liked her. He, who had 
always been the thrall of his family, realised the 
courage it required to do what she had done. 
She was such an engaging little bundle of para¬ 
dox. So valourous and timid; so strong and capa¬ 
ble in lots of ways; so hopelessly weak and 
ineffectual when it came to unravelling some 
tangle in which her own kind heart enmeshed her. 
But it was not till little Joe broke the necklace 
that John realised what had happened to him. 

As she knelt upon the floor, stooping to gather 
up the scattered beads, he found himself staring 
at the back of her neck. 

Where the diamond clasp had been driven into 
the tender flesh by Joe’s strong pull, there was a 
red mark that stood out unkind and angry on its 
privet-white. Such a little neck it was, rounded 
and slender, and caressed by the soft tendrils of 
hair that grew so prettily. He felt a hypnotised 
desire to kiss the red mark and “make it well,” 
as he had often seen her magically heal the fre¬ 
quent scratches and bumps that befell the ad¬ 
venturous Joe. 

He was astonished at himself, and rather 
shocked. When he had helped her to collect the 
scattered pearls he took his leave, and as he 
bicycled back to Easterhayes he reflected grimly 
that there was no fool like an old fool, and that 
it was well he was going back to London on the 
morrow. 


168 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


He was not sure of himself, for he agreed with 
Mr. G. Bernard Shaw that “there are such won¬ 
derful sorts of relations, and close togetherness, 
and babes in the woodiness, besides being in 
love.” 

He was filled with tenderness for Mellory, 
but . . . 

All the same Christmas saw him back at the 
Prescotts. Mellory was there a good deal, and 
of course he went often to Thatches to see his 
godson. And all that year he kept going to the 
Prescotts, and always when he stayed at Easter- 
hayes he went over to Thatches to play with 
little Joe; and playing with little Joe entailed 
considerable intimacy with Mellory. 

That autumn he followed her to Hove, and now 
no longer could he tell himself that his feeling 
for her could ever be satisfied by any wonderful 
sort of relation save that of marriage, which in¬ 
cludes them all. 

When he thought of her as she stood under the 
lamp outside Aunt Helena’s gate, bidding him 
good-night—when he saw again the little lifted 
face whipped into rosiness by wind and rain and 
spray, when she looked at him with her kind and 
candid eyes—why hadn’t he taken her in his arms 
there and then? 

He was a coward and a fool. . . . 

But what of her? 

Suppose she didn’t care for him—then he had 
spoilt the delicious relationship that did exist. 

The clock on Hove Town Hall struck seven, 
and John went back to Steyne Gardens. 


II 


PAMELA 

John’s sitting-room in his sister’s house was 
small and dark, with one window that looked out 
on the wall of the next house. It was on the 
entrance floor; the sort of little room that, when 
the house was built in the sixties, had been des¬ 
tined for the reception of hats and coats at 
parties. 

When, after his mother’s death, he went to live 
with his sister Amy, it was the only room that 
was available. He was in it very little, and any¬ 
way it was his own. He could sit there in peace 
and read and smoke. He wrote his letters there, 
and kept all his papers in the big desk that came 
with him from Rickmansworth. 

Amy always spoke of it as “John’s sanctum,” 
and was really conscientious in never allowing the 
innumerable committees that sat at The Elms 
to overflow into it, though at such times she was 
given to remove all his chairs save one. 

Only lately had John begun to realise, and 
resent, what an ugly and uncomfortable room it / 
was. The one armchair that Amy had left him 
(it also came from Rickmansworth) was derelict 
—had been for some time. The springs in the 
seat had on one side lost their resilience, and on 
the other a loose spiral thrust at him viciously. 

169 


170 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


The back, too, was full of knobs and hollows. 
One castor didn’t turn properly and scraped the 
worn carpet as if determined to work through 
it. The walls were drab. The day outside was 
drab. And John’s mentality would have been 
drab, too, but that excessive irritation had col¬ 
oured it red. 

Why hadn’t Amy sent the damned chair to be 
mended while he was away? He’d been away a 
week. Surely any decent firm could reseat a chair 
in a week! 

He had spoken about it, too, just before he 
went to Brighton. Yet, when last night he men¬ 
tioned it again, all Amy had said was: “Well, 
John, dear, surely the remedy is in your own 
hands. Drop a postcard to Hampden or Heal and 
ask them to send for it. You really have more 
time for that sort of thing than I have. Or why 
not buy a new one? You can afford it—and that 
chair is hardly worth mending.” 

Which was all quite true, but it had annoyed 
him excessively. 

Knock and ring. Knock and ring. The mem¬ 
bers of the committee for the League of Common 
Sense Compromise were arriving. 

Ah! there was a knock without a ring. That 
would be the post. Dare he sneak out and see 
if there were any letters for him? For if there 
were, no one would find time to bring them in 
to him. 

Cautiously he opened the door and looked into 
the hall, made a dash for it, got the letters out 
of the box, and sorted out his own, leaving the 
others on the hall table, and was back in his 


PAMELA 171 

room before the next footfall on the steps outside. 
Yes. There was one from Mellory. 

John sat down again in the uncomfortable chair 
and read: 

“Dear Mr. Mill, 

“Truly I did exactly as you advised about 
Mrs. Boase. I wrote asking her to stay on for 
one week after our return—till December 10th. 
I really was most definite, and from her answer 
thought she quite understood; but after I got 
back it was nothing like so simple. 

“She was so pleased to see us, and had gone 
out in all the wet to get evergreens and dogwood 
and berries to decorate the rooms. 

“Then about two days before her week was up 
she asked me if I could possibly let her stay a 
little longer, as the friends to whom she had ar¬ 
ranged to go had been suddenly called away and 
couldn’t have her—it didn’t occur to them to lend 
her their house—and she feared she’d have great 
difficulty in finding any rooms that she could 
afford at such short notice. It made me feel as 
though I had behaved badly to her somehow. So 
here she is still. And here, I am afraid, she will 
remain—anyway till after Christmas. She moved 
into the small bedroom before I came back— 
insisted on doing so, the servants said—and the 
moment I heard that, my heart sank. 

“But before I dilate further on the probabili¬ 
ties of a lengthy sojourn on the part of Mrs. 
Boase (I keep thinking of ‘Brethren, I have come 
to lay my bones among you’) I must tell you 



172 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 

that the ‘Americum Orgum’ is a horror. Dread¬ 
ful to look at and devastating to hear. 

“It utterly destroys the symmetry of my 
austere little dining-room. It’s yellow and fat 
(they’ve put it in the recess on the right-hand 
side of the fire because it had to be against an 
inner wall), and the Sheraton chairs, and the 
slender sideboard, and the oval table with the 
claw feet look shocked and huffy and huddled 
together like fastidious aristocrats invaded by an 
unasked, vulgar visitor. 

“She is so good-natured and cheerful, so anx¬ 
ious to help in every way, and really has been 
most kind and useful, and I feel a perfect wretch 
not to be more glad to have her. It is horrid 
when people are fonder of you than you are of 
them, isn’t it? It seems to lay such a burden of 
obligation upon you. 

“Joe is reserved in his attitude; but thrilled 
to the marrow of his bones by this new type of 
‘Beekinetwit’ that requires footwork as well as 
hands. 

“She uses it chiefly as an accompaniment for 
her singing. Her voice is a strong soprano, and 
she sings in tune, but—how shall I say it?— 
without much light and shade. If you can 
imagine what I’m getting at—her singing, music¬ 
ally, is rather like what a highly coloured oleo¬ 
graph of a popular picture is in the world of 
pictures. And the ‘orgum’ wheezes and moans 
and bleats till I feel I could attack it with a 
coal-hammer. Has this come upon me, I wonder, 
as retribution for all the music I let you in for 


PAMELA 


173 


at Hove? I always suspected you of being most 
awfully bored. 

“What are you doing at Christmas? How 
would it be, if you have nothing more exciting 
in view, to come to us? Then you can see Mrs. 
Boase, and perhaps suggest something. Joe is to 
have a Christmas tree for all the smallest village 
children, and kind Mrs. Prescott won’t be jealous 
if you come here, for she was grieving to me that 
their house will be so full she simply can’t squeeze 
in another soul, and I said: ‘Why shouldn’t he 
come to Thatches, then you can all see him when¬ 
ever you please?’ and she thought it would be an 
excellent plan. Do consider it. You shall smoke 
wherever and whenever you like, and I don’t 
think you’d find it too spinsterish a house. Joe 
prevents that. Besides, there is Mrs. Boase! 

“Most sincerely yours, 

“Mellory Upton.” 

It was a long letter for Mellory, two closely 
written sheets, and the concluding “most sin¬ 
cerely yours” was a transposition of her usual 
signature. 

So she had asked him to stay in her house. 

The adhesive Mrs. Boase had made that possi¬ 
ble—bless her! 

But could he go to Thatches for Christmas? 
Wasn’t there some half-promise to Pamela about 
winter sports at St. Moritz? He wouldn’t like 
to disappoint Pamela. She was working hard at 
the Slade School, and she was quite painfully 
thin. Confound it! what had he arranged with 
Pamela? For the life of him he couldn’t remem- 



174 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 

ber; he must go to Chelsea to-morrow and find 
out. Of course she wasn’t on the telephone in 
that horrid little flat she shared with another girl. 

John looked at his watch. Half-past five and 
they’d forgotten to bring him any tea. Should 
he trek into London, chance finding Pamela at 
home, and take her out to dinner? Saturday 
night; not much hope that she would be in. 
There were always weird studio parties on Satur¬ 
day nights. Wonder what time dinner is? 

Meals were movable feasts in Amy’s house, and 
no one ever consulted John as to whether he 
objected to dining at 6.45 one night and at 8.45 
the next. Meals were hastened or retarded to 
suit the meetings of committees. Amy was on 
a score of Boards and she liked to hold meetings 
in her own house. At breakfast she informed her 
family what time the evening meal was to be, 
and if it didn’t suit them they could dine else¬ 
where. It often puzzled John how his stay-at- 
home, rigidly regular parents had produced a 
daughter with Amy’s nomadic energy. She 
prided herself on her modernity, on her open 
mind, her live-and-let-live terms with her own 
daughters. She never interfered with them or 
laid the smallest stress on the parental relation¬ 
ship. She was well on in the thirties when Betty 
and Joan were born, and had passed forty on the 
arrival of Pamela. She had magnificent health. 
She made no attempt to look any younger than 
the sixty she was. Her temper was excellent. 
She was good-natured and uninterfering. But 
living with her was rather like attempting the 
discussion of an abstruse subject in a high wind. 


PAMELA 


175 


John always felt that his mind couldn’t hear hers, 
and that he could have no hope of making Amy 
hear his through the rush and roar of engage¬ 
ments that eddied and swept about her. She was 
always looking at her wrist-watch, for she was 
“due somewhere in half an hour,” and she prided 
herself upon her punctuality. John ought to 
have got used to this long ago, but it always 
worried him. Lately it had irritated him as well; 
and he began to feel that he was a fool to keep 
on living in this state of discontent when there 
was really no necessity to do anything of the sort. 
If the five pounds a week that he paid for the two 
rooms was necessary to Amy, then in heaven’s 
name let him pay it still and clear out. She 
wouldn’t like it; he acknowledged that in her 
own detached, impersonal way she was fond of 
him—but ... he couldn’t stand this sort of 
thing much longer. 

He must get hold of Pamela. 

He gave a bounce on that purgatorial chair, 
but the loose spring gave him such a dig that 
he felt the chair got the best of the encounter, 
and at that moment the subject of his thoughts 
opened the door and walked in. 

“Hullo, Unclet,” Pamela exclaimed, “I’m glad 
to catch you at last; you’ve became such a gad¬ 
about lately one never knows where you may be. 
I’ve actually come home for the week-end, and, 
of course, it’s wet. I haven’t seen Mummy yet— 
shan’t see her till dinner, I expect—and I’ve had 
no tea—but dinner’s at half-past seven to-night. 
They don’t allow us many chairs, do they? All 
gone to the meeting, I suppose. Never mind, I’ll 


176 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


sit on the floor. Well, and how are you after this 
long time?” 

Pamela sank upon the floor, sitting cross- 
legged with her long slender feet tucked under 
her. 

“Ugh l” she said, with a shiver, “my shoes are 
wet. May I take them off?” 

Pamela wore less clothes than anybody else in 
John’s acquaintance. Sometimes when she sat 
on his knee he wondered nervously whether she 
had on anything below her frock, which was short 
and skimpy, and generally of some thin clinging 
material. Although she was a tall girl her bones 
were very small. Otherwise she would have been 
gaunt, so little flesh covered them. Her fair, 
straight hair was short, growing low on her broad 
forehead, and brushed straight back. Her eyes 
were lovely—a rare deep blue, black-lashed, and 
set wide apart. Her nose was impudent and 
tilted, and her mouth big but well-shaped. She 
generally looked cold, though she declared she 
wasn’t, and her Chelsea friends said she was “dis¬ 
tinctly paintable.” Which she was, for not even 
the latest slouch nor the highest Cuban heels 
could destroy the beauty of her “line” nor the 
easy grace of her walk. 

Pamela stuck out slender stockinged feet over 
the fender towards the fire. Her big toe pro¬ 
truded through a hole in one stocking, and they 
both steamed. 

“Sit here, Pamela,” John said, getting out of 
his chair. “You’d better get a dry pair of 
stockings, and I’ll go and hunt for another chair. 
There must be one somewhere.” 


PAMELA 


177 


“Sit down, Uncle John, and don’t fuss. I 
haven’t got any stockings here, and we’re not a 
lendful family, and I know all the chairs are being 
sat upon. I’ll take off my stockings if that will 
make you any happier, then they can dry in the 
fender, and my feet can roast close to the bars. 
. . . See what beautiful garters Teddy Beringer 
gave me—aren’t they too sweet?” 

“Why do you wear such miserable shoes on 
a day like this?” John asked, lifting a soaked 
suede shoe to look at it. “Why don’t you have 
some decent boots?” 

“Now don’t ask silly questions, Unclet, it’s tire¬ 
some. I wear what you call silly shoes because 
they’re pretty, and suit me, and I’d look a frump 
in the ones you’d approve of. Moreover, I detest 
boots—especially thick boots. There, I’ve re¬ 
moved by stockings and you haven’t fainted— 
and you must own my legs are quite nice, not 
hairy and horrible.” 

Pamela arranged herself so that she leant 
against his knees, and he was so conscious of her 
thin shoulders that he felt a garment more or 
less made very little difference. 

“Dear old thing!” she said, “won’t it be nice 
when we go right away into the white sunshine 
together? I engaged our rooms a fortnight ago— 
I wasn’t going to take any chances.” 

“You never told me, Pamela.” 

“Why should I, my dear? You said you’d go 
if I made all the arrangements, and I have. All 
you’ve got to do is to get the passports and the 
tickets and pay the hotel bills. We start on the 
16th. I must be back again to see the New Year 



178 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


in at the Savoy. Our crowd’s all coming back 
for that. So we’ll only get just a fortnight.” 

“Our crowd! Who are our crowd?” 

“All my pals, dear. You’ll be curling or lugeing 
with the older old gentlemen, and I must have 
someone to play about with.” 

“But if there’s a party going that you know, 
what do you want me for?” 

Pamela sat away from him so that she could 
turn and look at him. “I want you because I 
like having you, of course, and also—it’s a bit 
difficult to explain . . . but I think I want to 
show off.” 

“To show off?” 

“It’s like this,” Pamela said, drawing her bare 
feet away from the fire and tucking them under 
her. “When your only parent is like mine, and 
never interferes or seems interested in your do¬ 
ings, and leaves you to go your own way abso¬ 
lutely, however steep a sort of way it is—up or 
down hill—if it happens to be down . . . there 
comes a time when perhaps you feel the pace is 
getting a bit too fierce, and you long for anything 
that acts as a brake—anyway, that’ll look like a 
brake.” 

“And you think that’s how I’ll appear to . . . 
‘our crowd’?” 

“I’m sure of it—that’s why I want you so.” 

“I’m not at all sure I’m prepared to act as a 
dummy brake.” 

Pamela laughed and, stooping forward, dropped 
a kiss on his knee. 

“You shall act anyway you please if you’ll only 
come. That’s all I ask.” 


PAMELA 


179 


“And that, Pm afraid, is all you’ll get,” John 
said. “Sometimes I feel more like a chuckerout 
than a brake when I come across certain members 
of ‘our crowd.’ ” 

“You are such an archaic darling,” she ex¬ 
claimed, beaming at him affectionately. 

“Now what, exactly, do you mean by that?” 

“Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully, “I don’t 
mean it at all. Teddy Beringer says I’m often 
very involved. I don’t think it’s an accurate de¬ 
scription of you, for you’re not full of ‘dont’s’ and 
‘oughts’ like most archaic people; besides, your 
‘oughts’ generally refer to yourself— you’ve a 
frightful lot, poor dear—whereas the really stodgy 
keep all their ‘oughts’ for the young. No; 
‘archaic’ is wrong. I take it back. You’re old, 
of course, but you can’t help that, and, anyway, 
middle-aged rot hasn’t set in badly with you.” 

“Do I strike you so very old?” 

“If you mean do I think you’re going to die, not 
a bit of it. You’re good for another ten years 
anyway . . . and I hope it may be twenty,” she 
added generously. 

“It’s odd,” John said meditatively, “how little 
one realises one’s own age.” 

“I expect when one’s young one feels awfully 
old—I know I do sometimes—and then I suppose 
when you’re old you don’t feel any different, so 
you still think you’re young. Other people don’t, 
though, and it’s how you look to other people that 
matters, isn’t it?” 

“I suppose so,” John admitted sadly. 

“I wonder whether, when I’m fifty-odd, like 
you, I’ll sit on the floor and warm my bare 


180 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


legs.” And Pamela thrust out long thin legs to 
the fire again. 

“Wouldn’t you be rather surprised if your 
mother did that sort of thing?” 

“Shouldn’t I? I’m not sure. I’d be much more 
surprised if she sat darning my stockings in the 
evening while you read aloud to her out of the 
London Mercury 

“Heaven forbid!” John ejaculated. And the 
idea was so repellant that he frowned at Pamela, 
who smiled happily back at him. 

“You’ll want some warm clothes,” John said. 

She held out her hand, palm upwards. “How 
much are you going to give me towards my Swiss 
outfit?” 

“I’d rather come with you and see that you get 
the proper things.” 

“Righto—Monday it shall be. Harvey Nichols 
and Selfridge both have windows devoted to win¬ 
ter sports, so we can get some idea of the sort 
of rig-out that’s worn. Oh, Uncle John, what fun 
it will be!” 

Pamela stayed the night, and John spent the 
evening with her and her mother. When they 
had gone to bed he went back to his dismal 
“sanctum,” and stood staring at the fireless grate. 
He didn’t attempt the armchair. 

She had asked him to stay in her house, and 
he could not go. She had also said: “It’s horrid 
when people are fonder of you than you are of 
them.” 

Did she guess? Was she beginning to realise? 


PAMELA 181 

Was she trying to tell him gently that she hoped 
he wouldn’t be silly? 

He’d give his eyes to stay in that gracious, 
well-ordered house; to see her every day; to help 
with little Joe’s Christmas—but he had promised 
Pamela, and he never broke a promise, above all 
to anyone young. 

Perhaps it was all for the best. He wouldn’t 
risk the friendship . . . yet. 

“It’s how you look to other people that really 
matters,” Pamela had said. ... He had no idea 
how he looked to other people. . . . How he 
looked to one person . . . 

“Most sincerely yours.” 

“Yours most sincerely.” 

Did they mean precisely the same thing, or was 
there a subtle difference?” 

And if there was a shade of difference, wasn’t 
“most sincerely yours” just a trifle warmer? 
Pamela gave him ten years, so there wasn’t much 
time. None to waste. 

He switched off the light and went upstairs 
muttering: “Most sincerely yours.” 


II 


THE LIMPET 

Mellory awaited John's answer to her letter 
with real anxiety. 

If he came—it surely meant that she was not, 
as she sometimes feared, a conceited fool to 
imagine that perhaps he cared about her a little. 
He seemed to like to be with her, and she hoped 
it was not absurd to suspect that the fact that 
she and little Joe were at Hove had something to 
do with John’s visit to Brighton. 

She was worried, too, about Mrs. Boase; and, 
having absolute faith in John’s kindness of he?vt, 
she leaned the more heavily upon his judgment. 
He would never be uncompassionate, but he could 
be, she was certain, firm and fair. So she looked 
forward to his finding some means by which she 
could rid herself of this incubus without being too 
rough to the incubus. 

She had been brought up, rightly or wrongly, 
with the belief that personal comfort is some¬ 
thing that has to be accounted for. That if your 
lot happened to be cast in a fair ground it was 
incumbent upon you to do something for those 
who were less fortunate. 

It is true that from time to time Mrs. Boase 
talked vaguely of how much she desired to get 
“something to do,” but so far as Mellory could 

182 



THE LIMPET 


183 


discover, beyond entering her name in a couple 
of agencies as an “organiser,” she made no special 
effort to find anything to organise. 

Mrs. Boase, both mentally and physically, was 
stock size. Her mind always grasped and re¬ 
tained the last popular opinion but one. She had 
been very fond of her delicate husband, and tried 
to act up to her own idea of the sincerely mourn¬ 
ing widow, who struggles bravely to be “bright” 
so that she may not depress others. 

Five years of widowhood on straitened means 
had made her, perhaps, a little strident, a little 
too apt to emphasise both her cheerfulness and 
her poverty. 

It also made her quick to see where she could 
encroach with safety. 

An unmarried woman who was comfortably off 
—was her own expression—must w T ant a com¬ 
panion, or, at all events, ought to have one 
whether she wanted it or not. It wasn’t good 
for anyone to live only with servants. In and 
out of season, to visiting neigbours, she pitied 
Mellory’s loneliness, and refused to see that the 
presence of little Joe made any difference. 

She looked upon little Joe as “a pity”—“a 
mistake at dear Miss Upton’s age” (Mrs. Boase 
was four years younger than Mellory). “It was 
too late in life for her to be bothered with a baby.” 
Besides, she considered (Mrs. Boase always “con¬ 
sidered”) that if people were meant to have 
children . . . why, they married and had them. 
It was, somehow, going behind providence to 
adopt a strange infant who was no relation what¬ 
ever. 


184 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


Considering everything, Mrs. Boase thought 
that she, herself, was lucky to have no encum¬ 
brances. 

To be sure, Mellory had burdened herself with 
an exceedingly evident encumbrance, but that 
was no reason why she should not have a sym¬ 
pathetic companion as well, and Mrs. Boase was 
determined to be that companion. She didn’t 
want a salary. She was “quite independent.” 
She just wanted to stay where she was, and share 
Mellory’s life. She could afford to dress really 
well if she had no other expenses. She was a 
good needlewoman, made most of her own clothes, 
and made them admirably. She had also, since 
she came, completed two delightful blue smocks 
for little Joe, in which he looked adorable. 

It was already understood that she was to stay 
over Christmas, and it would be her own fault 
if she didn’t stop on a lot longer than that. She 
would make herself indispensable. She wasn’t 
lazy. She really liked doing all sorts of odd jobs. 
Mellory would soon find she was well worth her 
board and lodging. 

How nice, too, for Mellory to have someone 
to talk to in the evenings. Someone who took 
a real interest in all the little things about the 
house. Mrs. Boase was fond of quoting “Life 
is made up of little things.” 

She had a copious store of cliches always on 
tap. “She loved a joke,” she said, and some¬ 
times secretly feared that dear Miss Upton was 
perhaps a tiny bit deficient in the sense of 
humour. 

Another thing puzzled her—she had always 


THE LIMPET 


185 


understood that Miss Upton was so musical. 
Yet she never came to listen when Mrs. Boase 
practised, and she never offered to accompany 
Mrs. Boase in the evening. 

Miss Upton spent far too much time playing 
tunes to that baby. She seemed to think it won¬ 
derful that he could recognise forty, knew their 
names, and could himself sing a great many of 
them. 

Nursery songs and ballads were all very well in 
their way, but to devote so much time to them 
was really . . 

The post came in at breakfast. Mellory was 
late, and Mrs. Boase had already opened the two 
catalogues which comprised her mail and started 
making the tea before Mellory came down. 

There were several letters for her. 

“You always have such a large correspondence, 
dear Miss Upton. Do read your letters. I’ll be 
quite happy looking at these nice lists. The 
Christmas presents are so inviting, and I really 
think prices have come down a bit.” 

She beamed benevolently across the table at 
Mellory, who was pouring out tea. 

Every day since her return Mrs. Boase had 
made the same remark about her large corres¬ 
pondence, and Mellory felt ashamed of the irri¬ 
tation it aroused in her. 

With meticulous politeness Mrs. Boase passed 
her everything she could possibly need. She 
enveloped her in such a cloud of kindness that 
Mellory felt positively stifled. 


186 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


The “American orgum” loomed yellow and 
dreadful in the December gloom. 

“Soon we shall have reached the shortest day,” 
Mrs. Boase said with a sigh. “How time does 
fly!” 

Mellory, deep in a letter, made no response. 

“And I always think,” Mrs. Boase continued, 
“that once we have passed the shortest day it’s 
surprising how the days seem to lengthen out. 
And once you’re past New Year’s Day—why, it 
seems no time till one’s having tea by daylight.” 

Mellory laid down the letter she had been 
reading. 

“You’re looking rather tired this morning, dear 
Miss Upton. Did you not sleep well?” 

Mellory left the rest of her letters till after 
breakfast. Then Mrs. Boase rather ostenta¬ 
tiously produced a silk duster and, opening the 
“orgum,” polished the keys industriously. 

Mellory took her letters over to the window- 
seat, but before she opened any of the others she 
read John’s again: 

“Your delightful invitation sorely tempted me 
to break faith with my youngest niece. It is so 
kind of you to ask me to spend Christmas with 
you and my godson, and I do greatly want to 
come; but I fear I mustn’t, for quite early in the 
autumn I promised to take Pamela to Switzerland 
for a fortnight. Everything is arranged, and we 
start on the 16th. 

“I feel rather troubled about this good lady 
who has planted herself so firmly upon you. I’m 


THE LIMPET 


187 


afraid you’ll have to be definite indeed before you 
can dislodge her. Have you consulted Lady Leaf? 
I fancy she would find a short way out of the 
impasse. She might even tackle it for you if you 
got her to come down for a few days. 

“I do sympathise with you in your difficulty. 
One does things on the spur of a kind impulse, 
and then the results are so protracted one almost 
swears one will never be kind again. I wish I 
could have seen the lady, because then even I 
might have been of some use. 

“All I can do is to conjure you to be firm—kind 
you always are—but don’t be too tender-hearted. 
If people like you more than you can like them, 
that’s their look-out. You needn’t feel you owe 
them anything because of it. 

“My love to little Joe, and tell him that when 
I come back from Switzerland we’ll have quite 
a new story in which Bent and Mill perform 
prodigies on skis and with toboggans. 

“Oh dear, I do wish I wasn’t going, and that 
I was coming to Thatches instead; but Pamela is 
just nineteen, and one can’t disappoint nineteen, 
can one? 

“Always yours most sincerely, 

“John Mill.” 

“It’s legitimate, I suppose, to disappoint forty- 
four,” Mellory reflected ruefully, “and yet forty- 
foiir probably feels it more acutely.” 

She read her other letters; among them one 
from Cynthia: 

“How tiresome of you to have arranged to 



188 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


spend Christmas at Thatches when Geoff and I 
wanted you and Margot and Joe to come to us! 

“Who is this ‘friend’ you have asked to stay 
over Christmas? If it’s a he I forgive you, but 
if it’s only some lone female you are befriending, 
then I’m Grosser than ever. Look here, you must 
bring Joe before the New Year, and I’ll keep the 
tenants’ Christmas tree till he comes. Tell your 
mysterious ‘friend’ you are coming to us, and of 
course it will depart. 

“I suppose it isn’t_John Mill, is it? But why 
be secretive about him? You know we both like 
him so much. I suspect you of concealing some¬ 
thing—if not somebody. I always live in dread 
of a second Mrs. Jones actually installed in 
Thatches itself. 

“Tell me what day after the 25th I may expect 
you all, and you must stay at least a week— 
longer if you will.” 

Had Cynthia opened up a way of escape? 

Mellory always had Joe for an hour after 
breakfast while Margot did her night nursery. 
Unless it was raining cats and dogs they went 
out. Joe possessed diminutive rubber boots with 
long legs, like a Russian dancer’s. He was wear¬ 
ing them now, his second best warm coat, and 
no hat. 

“Not ready, Mell?” he exclaimed in surprise. 
“You are late.” 

“I think,” Mrs. Boase said fussily, “Miss Up¬ 
ton’s rather tired this morning, dear. Wouldn’t 
you like to come out with me?” 

Joe looked doubtfully at Mrs. Boase and then 


THE LIMPET 189 

at Mell, who had risen from the window-seat. 
“Neither of you’s ready,” he said doubtfully. 

“I’m coming, Joe dear,” Mellory said decidedly. 
“I won’t be a minute. Come and help me to find 
my big boots.” 

“Remember,” Mrs. Boase called after her, “I’m 
quite ready to stay out with him if you feel tired.” 

“Would you like to go and see Simpie and 
Uncle Geoff after Christmas?” Mellory asked him, 
as they climbed the steep path leading to the 
wood. 

“Will Mittis Boase go?” 

“No, darling; Aunt Simpie has only asked us.” 

“Will she go . . . away, I mean, like other 
visitors?” 

“Of course,” Mellory said, trying to take 
courage from the decision of her own voice, “she’ll 
be going away by-and-by.” 

“When’s by-and-by?” Joe asked, and as she 
did not answer: “Margot says, and Russell and 
cook; I heard them-” 

“It’s better not to repeat what you hear the 
servants say, darling,” Mellory interrupted 
nervously. “I expect they didn’t think you were 
listening.” 

“They said” Joe continued, emphatically and 
quite unabashed, “that the brown hen with the 
speckles lays an egg every day for me. S’all we 
go and see if she’s done it this morning?” 

When Mellory had handed over Joe to Margot 
she sought Mrs. Boase, who was knitting a 
jumper by the dining-room fire. 

“My sister wants me to take Joe to stay with 



190 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


them on the 28th/’ she said, a little breathlessly, 
for she was nervous. “Will that be all right for 
you?” 

“Oh, don’t consider me, dear Miss Upton. I 
shall be perfectly happy here. I never mind 
being alone for a little; I have so many resources, 
so many occupations. Of course you must go to 
your sister. Which one is it?” 

Mellory hardened her heart. Mrs. Boase, her 
plump cheeks reddened by the fire, sitting com¬ 
fortably with her feet on the fender, didn’t at that 
moment look in the least pathetic. “I was won¬ 
dering whether you’ve been able to find any 
suitable quarters yet. You said you thought 
things would be easier after Christmas.” 

“Not Christmas week, dear Miss Upton. I’m 
sure you’d never turn me out in Christmas week. 
If I may, I’ll just wait here till you come back. 
I’ll probably have heard of something by then 
and would be glad to have your advice about 
it. . . . You can’t want my room if you’re 
away, can you? And I can get through any 
amount of sewing. I won’t be a bit of trouble, as 
you know. ...” Her voice trembled, and there 
were sudden tears in her eyes. 

Mellory sighed, and said no more. After all, 
she was pathetic, and she was right—Christmas 
week was not the proper time to ask anyone to 
look for new quarters. It was silly to think that 
Cynthia’s invitation had opened up a way of 
escape. Escape from Mrs. Boase for a brief space 
—yes. But her departure from Thatches seemed 
as unlikely as ever. She went out and stood un¬ 
certainly in the hall. She felt she couldn’t bear 


THE LIMPET 


191 


the dining-room just then. More and more did 
she find herself disliking any room that Mrs. 
Boase was in. It was an impossible state of 
affairs. It was getting on her nerves, and so deep 
in thought was she that she started violently 
when Russell's respectful voice behind her said: 
“Please, mum, could I speak to you for a 
minute?" 

Mellory went into the drawing-room. Russell 
followed her and shut the door. Russell was 
tall and thin, of austere respectability and pre¬ 
war competence. She had come in the train of 
“cook," and Mellory loved her dearly. 

“I'm sorry to trouble you, mum," Russell said, 
in the remote whisper she considered genteel, 
“but if that lady does her washing in the bath¬ 
room so constant I fear I can’t stay." 

“What do you mean, Russell?" Mellory ex¬ 
claimed, though she knew perfectly well. “What 
is a bathroom for?" 

“Well, mum, since you ask me, I must say I've 
always hitherto been in places where it was used 
for purposes of the toilet and not as a laundry." 

“But when there’s a baby . . Mellory 
pleaded. 

“I don't say a word against Margot, mum; 
she's a clean, tidy girl, and what she does for 
Master Joe she does in a proper place and in a 
proper manner. But I simply can't bear to have 
my bathroom messed up when I've put it all tidy 
for the day. Yesterday afternoon— afternoon , 
mum—when I looked in to see if the fixed basin 
wanted a rub round, there was soapy water 
splashed about—there was a bit of string stretched 


192 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


across with stockings and such hanging to it. 
The hot towel rail was smothered in things, and 
there was actually a pair of combinations on a 
coat stretcher dripping on the floor. I’m not 
used to it, mum; I take a pride in my places, and 
cook’ll tell you the same. None of it was Master 
Joe’s little things. All the time you was at Hove 
it was the same, and we didn’t like it.” 

“I’m sorry, Russell; I quite understand your 
feeling, but it is difficult to tell guests they 
mustn’t do this and that, and I know Mrs. Boase 
does it to save the laundry bills all she can. She 
washed a lot of things for me as well as her own.” 

“I’m sure, mum,” Russell murmured with a 
sniff, “any of us’d be most pleased to wash out 
anything for you that you don’t wish to send to 
the laundry. May I ask, mum, if the lady is to 
be permanent?” 

“Oh dear, no,” Mellory said hastily. “She’s 
remaining over Christmas and till we return from 
Lady Leaf. I’ll ask her to try and not make a 
mess. I quite understand your not liking it, but 
I must ask you to be a little patient.” 

“Well, mum, I’m sure I don’t want to make 
trouble, but me and cook both felt we’d like to 
know if the lady had come permanent.” 

Russell departed, and Mellory sank upon the 
nearest chair. It was one of her greatest trials 
that on Monday mornings Mrs. Boase always 
brought the washing to be done down to break¬ 
fast with her in a large bundle lest the officious 
Russell should snatch it and send it to the 
laundry. It is true that she waited till Russell 
had finished upstairs before she took possession of 


THE LIMPET 193 

the bathroom . . . but . . . like Russell, Mellory 
was not used to it. 

It was so dreadful, too, that poor Mrs. Boase 
was always doing things for her. It made her feel 
so ungrateful, so mean and inhospitable; and, 
worst of all, since Mrs. Boase came, Thatches 
seemed to have shrunk into such a small house. 

At that very minute she came in briskly to see 
if the vases needed fresh water. “What! sitting 
all alone in here without a fire! That’ll never 
do—not that it’s cold anywhere in this kind house, 
with all these radiators—so handy they are to 
dry things on. Can I take your things upstairs 
for you? Yes, the Roman hyacinths would be the 
better for a little moisture; its extraordinary what 
thirsty things they are.” 

And Mellory longed to reply in the words of the 
“Soliloquy in a Spanish Cloister”: “Water your 
damned flower-pots—do!” 


IV 


FATE AND MARGOT 

Margot and Joe were walking in the little wood 
at Thatches. 

“What’s ’at noise?” he asked, stopping to listen 
with small uplifted finger. 

“Sounds like some one sawing,” Margot said, 
“but it can’t be. Coleman don’t come Saturday 
afternoons. Besides, he’s laid up—got rheuma¬ 
tism something terrible.” 

“Le’s go and see,” said Joe, ever athirst for 
adventure. “P’r’aps poor Coleman’s better.” 

They left the path and followed the sound over 
ground ivy and thick fallen leaves that crackled 
deliciously under their feet. 

Margot was right. Sure enough, there was 
someone sawing. Sawing logs from a fallen beech 
that had been cut down to make room for younger 
trees. 

He had his back to them. A young back, clad 
in a grey flannel shirt and old khaki trousers. 
The big saw he was using made such a noise that 
he didn’t hear them come up behind him. When 
the log dropped he put it in a sack which was 
already half full. His coat was lying beside the 
sack. 

“Well!” Margot said, “I’d like to know what 
you think you’re doing here.” 

194 



FATE AND MARGOT 


195 


He straightened himself and turned round. 
Young, well set-up, with bold black eyes con¬ 
spicuous in a rather pale face, blue shaded about 
the thin cheeks and chin, for he badly needed a 
shave. He wore no collar, and his shirt was open 
at the neck. 

He looked at the incriminating sack. He looked 
at little Joe; and then he looked at Margot. 
Against her will she felt a queer thrill of excite¬ 
ment, for the impudent black eyes softened sud¬ 
denly, and then positively blazed with barefaced 
admiration. He had a charming crooked smile, 
and his teeth was even and white. 

“Can I saw, too?” Joe asked, pushing forward. 

Margot caught at his hand and pulled him 
back. 

“What,” she asked again, “are you doing here?” 

The young man scratched his blue chin and 
his dark eyes flickered as he said: “You can see, 
miss, can’t you?” 

“I can see all right, but that doesn’t explain 
why you’re cutting logs off our trees.” 

“7 want to saw,” Joe announced, pulling at 
Margot’s hand. “Do let me.” 

“Wait, darling, wait. This has got to be looked 
into.” 

“Now, miss,” the young man said persuasively, 
“you listen to me. My old aunt, by name of 
Baldwin, is very short of firin’, an’ it’s Saturday 
an’ all—no chance for her to buy more to-day. So 
I says to myself: Til go out an’ see if I can’t 
scrounge her a bit from somewhere. Your young 
gentleman’s ma won’t miss a few logs now—will 
she, sir?” 


196 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“Who is ma?” Joe asked with interest. He 
recognized himself as the “young gentleman/’ but 
“ma” was a new word to him. 

“Hush, dear,” Margot said. Then sternly to 
the scrounger: “It’s nothing to you what she 
might miss. This is private property, and all the 
wood in it belongs to the house. You may call 
it scrounging, but we’ve another name for it 
where I come from.” 

“Where do you come from—if I may make so 
bold?” the young man asked, with an ingratiating 
smile. “Your face seems familiar like.” 

“Well, yours isn’t,” Margot said tartly; “and 
the sooner you empty those logs out of that sack 
and take it and yourself off, the better it’ll be 
for all parties.” 

“I want to saw! I want to saw! I want to 
saw a little log for my own self,” Joe chanted. 

“So you shall, sir; so you shall. Let him,” he 
pleaded, “7 won’t hurt him.” 

He started the saw in a branch. Joe grasped 
it; a tiny hand in a woollen glove with the great 
grimy hand behind it. 

The big saw moved to and fro with an en¬ 
trancing rasp, and presently the next log fell. 

“Again!” Joe commanded, dancing with 
excitement. 

And all the time Margot felt those impudent 
black eyes upon her, and delicious tremors ran 
up and down her spine. 

She looked a very different girl from the 
anaemic, “dowdy little piece” who came to 
Thatches nearly three years ago. Her cheeks 
were firm and rosy. Her grey eyes still kept their 


FATE AND MARGOT 


197 


look of wisdom and soberness, but were bright 
with health as well. Her coat and skirt and pull- 
on hat were of a warm delphinium blue; a blue 
that threw up and accenuated her clear colouring 
and feathery cinnamon-tinted hair. She was still 
square, but with the sturdy graceful squareness of 
a good Cromwellian chair. She knew her clothes 
were pretty. She knew she looked w T ell; but she 
had not known that she looked as well as this 
vagrant young man’s eyes seemed to proclaim. 
She wished he would take his eyes off her. 
They made her feel so queer and trembly. 

But she wasn’t going to let him know that. 

Not she. 

Two more logs fell to Joe’s sawing. 

“Are you going peaceable?” Margot demanded 
impatiently, “or do you want to hear more about 
it? I know old Miss Baldwin by sight, and I’m 
certain—if she is your aunt—that she don’t want 
no stolen goods in her house. You empty out 
that sack and be off.” 

He smiled at Margot with a sort of grave ten¬ 
derness, and at the same time winked at little 
Joe, who instantly responded to the secret code 
that flashes from man to man. 

Joe dearly loved his Margot; but he was irre¬ 
sistibly drawn to this blue-chinned stranger. 

Why should Margot seem so cross to him? 

“I’m afraid I must take the wood, miss,” the 
young man said. “I promised me aunt, and,” 
with a deprecating smile, “it ain’t as much as I 
hoped, owing to your coming up so suddin. I’m 
going to take it, an’ you an’ your little gentleman 


198 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


there can follow me if you please an’ make the 
trouble you spoke about so severe. We got a bit 
used to pinchin’ what we wanted over there in 
France—an’ you can’t drop the ’abits of some five 
years all in a day.” 

“It’s three years since the armistice/’ Margot 
said coldly. 

“An’ two since I was demobbed—an’ no job 
yet. You find me a job an’ I’ll not touch any¬ 
body’s stuff but what I can pay for. All the same, 
I’m not going to see my old aunt left without a 
bit of firin’ over Sunday. So that’s that.” 

“And what,” Margot asked scornfully, “is a 
great hulking chap like you livin’ on an old 
woman for? I’d be ashamed if it was me.” 

“Gently, gently!” the young man said, as he 
put on his coat—there were two wound stripes on 
the sleeve and a long line of ribbon on the breast. 
“There you stands as pretty as a picture —in a 
job, and a nice soft job, too, I should say, by the 
look of you. An’ what abaht me? I’ve come here 
to look for a job. I’ve got good references—if I 
do scrounge a bit o’ wood—an’ I don’t cost me 
aunt a penny. You can ast her. Just because 
you’re comfortable yourself, an’ on the top of the 
wave, as it were, don’t you go an’ speak crool to 
a chap wot’s down on his luck. Now, sir, which of 
them logs as you sawed so beautiful is you wishful 
to take home?” 

Joe selected his log, but he was not quite 
happy. Margot was annoyed with his new friend ; 
and his new friend was, apparently, hurt that 
Margot should be annoyed with him. Joe’s 
thoughts turned to the solver of every doubt— 



FATE AND MARGOT 199 

the supreme tribunal. “Let’s ask Mell,” he sug¬ 
gested; “I’m sure she’d give him some wood.” 

“What can you do?” Margot inquired, relenting 
a little. “Have you been to the Labour Ex¬ 
change?” 

“If I’ve been to one Labour Exchange I’ve been 
to twenty,” he exclaimed bitterly. “Before the 
war I was in the stables at Minchinmore Park, 
and before that I was in the garden . . 

“Oh!” Margot said, with a little gasp, “we 
want someone for the garden—but how can I 
speak for her if you go taking our wood?” 

“You let me talk to the lady—I’ll own up about 
the wood. What name did you say?” 

“Mell,” Joe cried joyfully. “Come an’ see Mell 
—come now with us. Come with Margot an’ me.” 

“No,” said Margot, with her chin in the air, 
“certainly not. I wouldn’t be seen with him, just 
now—not if it was ever so. Come, dear.” 

Again blue-chin winked at Joe. Again, against 
her will, Margot’s eyes were caught and held by 
those coercive black eyes under the black eye¬ 
brows. 

He shouldered the sack of logs, having thought¬ 
fully added the two that Joe couldn’t carry. 

“The day will come,” he said slowly, “when 
you’ll be pleased to be seen about with Bill 
Baldwin everywhere. Everywhere, miss. You 
mark my words, that day will come. Good- 
byee! Miss . . . Margot.” 

He jumped the wall. He ran down the steep 
field, climbed over the five-barred gate, and, with 
a last wave of his battered cap, vanished into the 
winding lane. 


200 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“Well!” Margot said, “of all the impudent 
young feller-me-lads! Him and his days!” 

“What day will come?” Joe asked, with deep 
interest. 

“A day of reckoning, I hope,” Margot remarked 
austerely. 

“He t’luted me,” Joe said proudly, “and I 
t’luted him.” 


V 


V 


THE DAY OF RECKONING 

Joe tried very hard to tell Mellory all about the 
man who was sawing in the wood. But Mellory, 
disappointed about John, and devastated by the 
ubiquitous Mrs. Boase, did not pay much atten¬ 
tion. Someone had allowed Joe to saw logs, and 
he was much excited about it, that was what she 
gathered from Joe’s prattle, and it didn’t strike 
her as anything remarkable, because he wanted 
to put his little finger into every pie he came 
across, and, as a rule, the kindly folk in Little 
Hayes let him have his way. 

Margot, stern moralist, never so much as men¬ 
tioned the incident to aynone. 

On Monday morning Mrs. Boase, having been 
gently tackled on the bathroom question, paused 
in her meticulous polishing of the “orgum” keys 
to ask rather huffily: “Will Russell object if I 
try to dry my little things on the radiator in my 
bedroom? It’s hopeless to hang anything out of 
doors in this weather. Besides, they’d probably 
object to my presence in the yard. You know, 
dear Miss Upton, you do spoil your servants.” 

Mellory flushed. If she snubbed Mrs. Boase 
she felt a perfect beast directly afterwards. “Per¬ 
haps you’re right,” she said patiently; “but good 
servants are not easily come by in these days, 

201 


202 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


and they make us very comfortable—don’t they?” 

“You make them very comfortable—but you do 
that to everyone. Since my great sorrow I’ve 
never been so happy anywhere as with you. We 
seem to fit in so perfectly.” 

Joe appeared at this moment, and MelJory 
went with him to the drawmin for a recital on 
Beekinetwit. They always did that on wet 
mornings. 

It cleared about eleven, and as cook wanted 
several things from the village, Margot took the 
pram. Joe always liked to walk down the drive, 
so he and Dinah trotted by her side. 

Just as they reached the second level bit before 
the steep descent to the gate, she discovered that 
she had forgotten cook’s list. 

“We’ll leave the pram here and run back for 
it,” she said. 

This they did, and, bidding Joe wait for her, 
she left him standing in the porch with Dinah. 

It seemed to Joe that Margot was a very long 
time. He strolled out into the drive and, as 
Dinah started to trot down, he followed her till 
he came up with the waiting pram. 

Still no Margot. 

He amused himself—first by trying to climb 
into the pram, but it wouldn’t stand still—then 
by giving it a little push and seeing it move 
forward. Dinah barked, for she wanted to start. 
Another little push . . . and then another, and 
the pram ran over on to the steep slope and 
started down the hill at a good pace. 

Joe stood quite still to watch it; and Dinah, 
much astonished^ barked louder. 



THE DAY OF RECKONING 


203 


It was a heavy pram, and gathered momentum 
as it ran. It swayed from side to side, but kept 
well in the centre of the drive. 

Quick steps came behind him, passed him, and 
a breathless Margot pursued the galloping pram, 
exclaiming anxiously: “Oh dear! oh dear! how 
very naughty—suppose anything’s passing.” 

Joe and Dinah pursued Margot, and the pram 
careered gaily through the open drive gate slap 
into a passing motor, broadside on. 

The pram bounded and buckled, and collapsed 
a dismal wreck in the road. Cushions and shawls 
and beautiful fur rug were scattered in the mud. 

The motor pulled up, and a white-faced man 
descended from the steering wheel. 

Mrs. Jones rushed out of the cottage, and Mrs. 
Boase, who had been down to the village to buy 
lux (she made an emphatic point of never using 
Mellory’s soap), dropped her parcel, screamed 
loudly, and sat down on a heap of stones, with 
both hands clasping her heart. 

“What the devil do you mean by letting a 
perambulator rush out like that?” the man 
shouted, advancing angrily upon the prostrate 
Mrs. Boase. “Was there a child in it?” 

Mrs. Boase waved her hands helplessly and 
continued to pant. 

“No, I’m here!” shouted little Joe, wildly ex¬ 
cited. “I tried to get in, but I couldn’t.” 

“Who, then, is responsible?” the man asked. 

Like the avenging fates, Mrs. Jones and Mrs. 
Boase pointed at Margot, who, white and shaken, 
was gathering up the contents of the poor pram 
out of the mud. 


204 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“I’ve always maintained,” Mrs. Jones declared 
bitterly, “that Miss Upton made a mistake in 
taking that girl. She isn’t fit to be trusted with 
any child, and this has proved it. First of all a 
pilferer, and now this.” 

“A pilferer!” Mrs. Boase gasped. “I’ve never 
felt sure of her myself, though I never dared hint 
it to Miss Upton. Did you say a pilferer?” 

“Dressing her up and pampering her,” Mrs. 
Jones went on, chiefly for Margot’s benefit, “and 
that’s how she shows her gratitude—leaving the 
child to go to his death for all she cares.” 

“Who’s going to pay for my mud-guard?” 
asked the man, who had been looking at his car. 

Again Mrs. Boase waved her hands, and rose 
unsteadily to her feet. 

“You’d better ask that young woman there,” 
Mrs. Jones cried, with icreased venom. “She’d 
pay for that and the perambulator, too, if I had 
my way—careless, stuck-up . . . dishonest, in¬ 
capable . . .” 

“Nah then! nah then!” interposed a new voice. 
“You’ve no call to speak to the young lady like 
that—can’t you see she’s as rattled as any of ya?” 

Margot turned red as she had been pale the 
moment before—for there, just behind her, in the 
middle of the road, neatly dressed, well shaved 
and spruce, and looking if possible more impudent 
than ever, stood Bill Baldwin—spectator of her 
shame. This really was the crowning ignominy 
of a dreadful morning. 

“Nobody asked you to put your oar in,” she 
muttered hoarsely. 

The owner of the motor produced a notebook. 



THE DAY OF RECKONING 


205 


“Name of house?” he asked. “Name of owner?” 

Mrs. Jones eagerly supplied both. 

“You’ll hear from me again,” he said crossly. 
Bill Baldwin obligingly wound up the car for him, 
and he drove away. 

“Come inside, Mrs. Boase, for a few minutes, 
and rest,” Mrs. Jones said, with unusual hospi¬ 
tality. “I can see you’re badly shaken. And 
hadn’t we better bring the little boy in with us 
till you can take him back to Miss Upton? That 
girl there is certainly not fit to have charge of him. 
. . . Come along, dear; you come with Mrs. 
Boase and me.” 

Mrs. Boase seized one of Joe’s reluctant hands 
and Mrs. Jones the other. Joe dug his heels into 
the ground, very red and angry, and let them 
drag him. “I won’t come with you!” he shouted. 
“You leave me go! . . 

But they held him fast and pulled him along. 

Then the fiery temper, so seldom roused be¬ 
cause he was compassed about by a wise gentle¬ 
ness, blazed up. 

He screamed. He kicked Mrs. Boase, and he 
succeeded in biting Mrs. Jones’s bare hand, and 
finally both ladies let go of him at the same 
moment. 

He broke from them and rushed to Margot, 
throwing himself upon her and yelling hoarsely: 
“I will go with my Margot! I shan’t go with 
those nasty horrible ’omans! . . . She never 
pussed the pram. ... I pussed it. . . .” 

Margot dropped all the things she had picked 
up and gathered the howling Joe into her arms, 


206 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


while her own tears rained down over her scarlet 
cheeks. 

Bill Baldwin collected rugs and pillows as Mar¬ 
got dropped them, placed them in the dismem¬ 
bered pram, which he balanced on one bent wheel, 
and turned cheerfully to the weeping pair, saying: 
“Now where shall I take this little lot?” 

As Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Boase vanished into 
the cottage, Margot heard “. . . and followers as 
well.” 

A melancholy procession started up the drive, 
Margot carrying the still sobbing Joe, who be¬ 
tween sobs proclaimed: “I’ll kill zose beastly 
’omans dead ... I will.” 

“Hush, my darling; you mustn’t talk like that.” 

Just by the garage they met Mell herself, 
hurrying down without a hat or coat. She had 
heard little Joe’s rare screaming, and was) 
frightened. 

“Oh, what has happened?” she cried. “Is he 
hurt?” 

Bill Baldwin appeared from the open garage, 
where he had put the debris. 

“Nobody’s hurt, mum,” Margot said eagerly, 
“except in their feelin’s, but the pram’s all broke 
to bits, and it’s all my fault for leaving him.” 

“Horrible ’omans!” Joe hiccoughed, “so rude 
and nasty. But,” he added, more cheerfully, “I 
kickened and bit ’em.” 

“There’s been a bit of liveliness,” the young 
man explained, in a soothing voice, “and this 
young lady’s nerves is shook to bits. The per¬ 
ambulator bounced out of the drive, sudden-like, 
and charged into a motor, and everybody got a 


207 


THE DAY OF RECKONING 

bit rattled; but nothin’s damaged except the 
pramblator, and I fear Vs gone west.” 

“Is this one of your brothers, Margot?” Mel- 
lory asked. 

“No, mum, he’s not, and I don’t know what 
he’s come for except that he was passing just at 
the minute it all happened, and he carried the 
things up for us. . . .” 

“But what are you both crying about if no¬ 
body’s hurt?” 

“I’ve finished now,” Joe answered. “Let me 
get down, please, dear Margot. This,” he said, 
waving his hand to Bill Baldwin, “is Mell. Now 
you can see her.” 


“We were all frightened to death, mum, an’ 
that’s the truth. Mrs. Boase and Mrs. Jones must 
have thought for a minute that Master Joe was 
in the pram, and so did the gentleman who was 
driving. I don’t wonder they was all angry. I’ll 
never leave him again a single minute with any¬ 
thing on wheels. He’s got far too much sense to 
run out into the road hisself.” 

“About that young man, Margot—do you know 
anything about him?” 

“Nothing whatever, mum, except that, like a 
lot more, he’s out of work.” 

“We do need somebody,” Mellory said thought¬ 
fully. “I saw Mrs. Coleman yesterday and Cole¬ 
man won’t be able to do any work in the bad 
weather, and perhaps not after that—I do feel 
sorry for them.” 


208 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“I shouldn’t worry, mum; they’ve got a good 
bit put by.” 

“This Baldwin gave me several references. I 
think I’ll write.” 

“Did he tell you about the wood, mum?” 

“He did. Of course, he ought not to have taken 
it—but . . . Suppose Aunt Helena was faced 
with a Sunday without any fire, I believe I’d do 
the same thing myself.” 

“Don’t you tell him so, anyway, mum. From 
what I can see—though to be sure I know nothing 
about him—he seems to me to be a chap that 
wants keepin’ in his place—not but what he may 
be a good worker. . . .” 

“Well, I’ve told him he can come and do the 
stoves and boots and knives till I hear. It would 
be very useful to have someone for messages, and 
there is that old bicycle.” 

Little Joe was made to apologise to Mrs. Jones 
and Mrs. Boase. Margot, though she disliked 
them both extremely, had burned too many 
mental candles before the altar of “Saint Use” 
not to disapprove of any little boy—especially a 
little boy in her charge—“miscalling grown-up 
ladies.” 

He wasn’t a scrap repentant, but he liked to 
please Mell and Margot, and if this silly perfunc¬ 
tory expression of penitence that he didn’t feel, 
pleased them—why, then, in the name of peace 
and common sense, let him express it, and be 
done with the whole tiresome business. 

He was sorry about the pram. He liked the 




THE DAY OF RECKONING 


209 


pram. That was a regrettable incident, but how 
could he guess it would rush away like that? 

When Mrs. Boase, very tactful and reserved, 
came down to lunch, he marched up to her and, 
like a well-primed parrot, said, in anything but 
a meek voice: “Please, Mittis Boase, I’m sorry I 
kickened you. I’m sorry I was rude. I hope you’ll 
try and forget it.” 

The same formula was gone through with 
Mittis Jones next time he met her. 

In a few days, so far as Joe was concerned, the 
whole thing was forgotten, and a quite new star 
was shining in the firmament of his affections, 
for Bill Baldwin was working all the week at 
Thatches. 


VI 


A MEDLEY 

The 4th of January, 1921, at Waring Dean, 
and Mellory was breakfasting in bed. Since he 
had become a landed proprietor, Geoff insisted 
upon having breakfast at half-past eight, and, 
as Cynthia disliked this arrangement, she never 
got up for hers, and encouraged her guests to 
have theirs in their rooms at nine o’clock. 

Letters came up on the breakfast tray, and for 
Mellory it was like the loosening of a too tight 
bandage not to have Mrs. Boase’s daily comment 
upon the largeness of her mail. 

As it happened, there were only two letters for 
her; one from John Mill, with the London post¬ 
mark, and one from cook. 

Of course, she read John’s first. 

“Dear Miss Upton, 

“Thank you so much for your Christmas letter. 
Your description of Joe’s party and the tree made 
me more than ever sorry to be where I was, in¬ 
stead of at Thatches. I’m so glad that the new 
gardner seems promising. You really need a 
man at Thatches who’ll make himself useful all 
round, and now it is so difficult to get anyone in 
the country to work regularly, unless you can 
house him as well. 


210 


A MEDLEY 


211 


“I think that, like everybody else, I couldn’t 
resist boring you with a description of our bad 
weather during the first week. Well, just as it 
was improving, on Christmas Eve, Pamela, the 
second time she had her skis on, sprained her 
ankle quite badly, and had to lie up for the rest 
of her stay. So she has had a very dull time, 
poor dear, which she bore with cheery philosophy. 

“There is no doubt about it, that during and 
since the war youngsters have attained to an 
extraordinary stoicism, both as regards bearing 
pain and disappointment. They are a bit hard, 
perhaps, but they are plucky; and if they give 
precious little in the way of attention or sym¬ 
pathy to older people, they don’t themselves 
expect or get either from their contemporaries. 
I’ve been rather amused by the attitude of what 
Pamela calls ‘our crowd’ over this mishap of hers. 

“When they came across her they’d remark, 
‘Hard luck, old thing,’ but never, for five minutes, 
did they disarrange any plan they’d made for 
their own amusement in order to entertain her. 
Even a young man who, I was given to under¬ 
stand, had reached the affectionately intimate 
but somewhat nebulous position of such young 
men with regard to Pamela, seemed just as callous 
as the rest, and I am quite certain the thought 
has never crossed her mind that he should deny 
himself any pleasure in the attempt to lighten 
what must have been extremely long, dull days 
for her. 

“I’m glad I came, for truly she would have 
been very lonely and forlorn without me, and 
with the help of the stalwart and most obliging 


212 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


hall porter we got her carried out into the sun, 
where she could at least see something of what 
was going on. 

“There was no view from our windows (she 
forgot to insist upon that when she engaged the 
rooms), but they were next door to one another, 
and had a door between. It seems she had stipu¬ 
lated for that, lest she should be nervous at night. 
I can’t picture Pamela nervous by night or day, 
but, as it happens, it has been most useful. 

“I often wish she knew you, for with all her 
modernity and the surface brusquerie that goes 
with it, I believe you’d rather like her; and, to 
her, you’d be quite a new experience. Such girls 
(daughters of energetic, busy mothers), who 
passed their adolescent years during the war, 
have been left to grow up exactly as they pleased, 
and it’s small wonder if they flop over to one 
side or the other when there was never a stake 
of any sort to tie them to. I’m beginning to be¬ 
lieve that all this curious topsy-turviness will 
presently shake down into some sound, workable 
formulae that will, in their turn, become as bind¬ 
ing as those of the late lamented Mrs. Grundy 
in the ’sixties. ‘ There was considerable knowledge 
of frail human nature and a shrewd expediency 
shown in a good many of her regulations. 

“What a prosy letter! I’ve put so much re¬ 
straint upon myself during the last fortnight in 
my attempts not to be a bore that, now, I’m 
afraid I’m rather letting myself go to one who is 
too gentle and too polite to snub me. And it’s 
the more cruel of me in that I gather you’ve had 


A MEDLEY 213 

a good deal to bear in that way from the adhesive 
lady. What does Lady Leaf say? 

“Yes: I do know the sort of person who says 
the same thing at the same time every day; and 
the positively murderous feeling such a habit may 
induce in the hearer. One nervously awaits the 
inevitable remark, and when it comes hatred and 
malice surge up in one’s heart with amazing force. 

“All this is by the way, for what I’m really 
writing about is this: Can’t you stay in town 
for a night on your way back to Thatches, and 
dine with me, and we’ll go to a play? Or, better 
still, stay two nights, and we’ll go to two plays. 
Tell me about dates, and what you’d like to see. 
I shall be in my garret here for the next fort¬ 
night. I’m not going back to Weybridge for the 
present. I get to dislike it more the more I see 
of it; the place, the house, and the people, except, 
of course, my sister and my nieces. 

“Do stay in London on your way back, and 
cheer your sincere, if platitudinous, friend, 

“John Mill.” 


Mellory looked pink and cheerful as she sat up 
in bed reading and rereading his letter, while she 
drank hot coffee and consumed crisp toast and 
bacon. She was, of course, sorry that his niece 
had sprained her ankle, but . . . she could not 
altogether grieve that Mr. Mill, all the time, had 
cause to wish he’d been at Thatches. A Mr. Mill 
in brilliant sunshine, continually surrounded by 
cheerful companions, skating and tobogganning 
all day, and perhaps playing bridge all evening, 


214 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


with no thoughts except for the invigorating 
present—and far too sleepy when he went to bed 
to miss anyone or anything—was a less satisfac¬ 
tory subject of contemplation than a Mr. Mill 
chained to the couch of a recumbent niece. It 
would be fun to dine with him and do a theatre. 
She would see Margot and Joe into the train for 
Marlehouse at Paddington, and stay the night at 
her club if she could get a room. She made up 
her mind that she would enjoy John’s friendship, 
and not be silly any more. As to Cynthia. . . . 
So far, she had not had the courage to confide 
the real truth about Mrs. Boase. . . . 

Here Margot appeared without Joe (who gen¬ 
erally came to see her at half-past nine) to say 
that Lady Leaf had sent for him to go to her 
room. 

Now for cook’s letter. 


“Dear Madam: 

“I feel it is right to tell you that the day 
before yesterday Mrs. Boase was took ill with 
influenza, and is rather bad. Russell telephoned 
for Doctor Evans yesterday morning, and he said 
we must be very careful, for both her lungs are 
affected. She didn’t wish me to mention it while 
you was away, but I feel it is my duty to do so, 
as Dr. Evans told Russell it would be better not 
to bring Master Joe home till the infection is 
passed, as it is a bad sort. Dr. Evans sent the 
parish nurse to put her in a sort of jacket smeared 
all over with stuff like putty, and her cough is 


A MEDLEY 215 

easier. Dear Madam, Russell and me, so far, is 
quite well. 

“Yours respectfully, 

“E. WOODHOUSE.” 

“P. S.—Dinah has taken to the young man, 
Baldwin, something wonderful, and is never 
away from him.” 

Mellory looked at her watch. Ten o’clock al¬ 
ready. The one train that would get her to Vic¬ 
toria before lunch left at eleven. She wasn’t 
dressed, and Waring Dean was three miles from 
the station. 

She must go next day, and ask Cynthia to keep 
Margot and Joe till Dr. Evans considered it safe 
for them to come home. On no account must 
Joe be exposed to infection. Why, she remem¬ 
bered that Maude’s little Nancy had nearly died 
of influenza two years ago! How sensible of good 
old cook to write! 

But she must go herself at once. Suppose 
Russell got it, and cook . . . 

She could get home to-night by a late train 
even by leaving after lunch, but there might be 
difficulty about a motor. 

She’d put through a trunk call and ask how 
Mrs. Boase was. If she was really bad perhaps 
Geoff would motor her to London—it was only 
forty miles—or she might go by the afternoon 
train to town, and stay the night with Florence 
or Anthony. 

In any case there could be no dinner and no 
play with John Mill. No glimpse of him unless 


216 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


. . . She must go through London . . . Oh, why 
didn’t she know his telephone number? 

Mellory leapt out of bed. 

Rosy and fresh in a clean overall, Joe was 
ushered into Simpie’s room by Mander, her maid. 
Simpie was sitting up in the big bed with pretty 
lace and pink rosebuds on her head and palest 
pink crepe de chine and more lace billowing about 
her shoulders. 

Beautiful as was Simpie’s appearance, he didn’t 
particularly want to see her just then, for he 
doubted whether she would care to play “camels” 
or do anything really strenuous. He had long 
ago come to the conclusion that Simpie was orna¬ 
mental rather than useful. 

Mander lifted him up on to the big bed, and 
went away. 

“Where,” asked Joe, “is Zeff?” 

“I’ve no idea,” Cynthia said. “He’s been gone 
for ages.” 

“I’d like to go and see him,” Joe said, pre¬ 
paring to roll off the bed. 

Cynthia made a grab at him. “Now, Joseph,” 
she said, “you can’t go yet. You’re going to stay 
with me for a bit, and we’ll play quite a new 
game.” 

“What sort of game?” 

“It’s a game called questions and answers. I 
question and you answer; and if you’re able to 
answer all my questions you get a prize for pro¬ 
ficiency.” 

“What’s profinchy?” 

“Being able to answer. Now we’ll begin . . . ” 


A MEDLEY 217 

“It doesn’t sound a very instasting game . . . ” 
he said dubiously. 

“Yes it is. . . . Now let us start. Question 
number one: Who is this lady you’ve left behind 
at Thatches?” 

“D’you mean Mittis Boase? Did you want her 
to come wis us?” 

“Not in the least, but I want to know what 
she’s like.” 

“Like?” He knitted his brows, considering. 
“She’s a ’oman ... an’ red an’ muts bigger nor 
Mell—an’ that’s all.” 

“No,” Simpie said firmly, “that’s not nearly all. 
What does she do?” 

“Wasses,” Joe answered promptly, “an’ plays 
on the ’armonium an’ sings.” 

“Washes!” Simpie repeated. “Why in the 
world should that impress you? We all wash.” 

“Not so muts as Mittis Boase,” Joe persisted. 
“I’ve never seen you wass.” 

“I should think not. Do you mean to say 
you’ve seen her wash?” 

“Lots an’ lots of times, an’ Margot doesn’t like 
it, and Russell doesn’t like it. They said so, an’ 
the door was open an’ I seed her. She says you 
jy better in a draf.” 

“What an extraordinary woman!” Simpie ex¬ 
claimed, much intrigued. “But what’s this about 
a harmonium? Mell never had a harmonium.” 

“Now she has,” Joe said proudly, feeling that, 
so far, he had acquitted himself rather well in this 
new game; “it’s in the dimin’.” 

“Do you mean to tell me,” Simpie demanded, 
“that Mell has taken to play the harmonium?” 


218 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“No, no, not Mell. Mittis Boase plays ’im an’ 
sings very loud. Can you sing, Simpie?” 

Cynthia leant back on her pillows, over¬ 
whelmed by these revelations. “Has the lady 
come to stay with you always—do you know?” 
she asked, in a faint voice. 

“Mell says she’s only a visitor, but Margot an’ 
Russell—I heard ’em—think she’s come for good. 
What’s Tor good,’ Simpie?” 

“It’s you who are being examined, not me. 
You’re doing very well, Joseph. Keep it up. Is 
Mell very fond of her?” 

“We’ll ask Mell,” he said, with sudden, un¬ 
expected discretion. “Have I winned the prize?” 

“Not yet—wait a minute,” and Cynthia 
grabbed him again as he threatened to roll off 
the bed. “Are you very fond of her?” 

“Fond of who?” 

“The lady.” 

“What lady?” 

“Now you’re being tiresome—you’re losing 
marks.” 

“What’s marks?” 

“As I told you before, it’s you who are being 
examined, not me. Are you fond of this Mrs. 
Boase?” 

“I don’t mind ’er.” 

“Do you want her to live with you always?” 

“Is ‘always’ the same as ‘for good’?” 

“Mell lives with you always. Would you like 
Mrs. Thingummy to do that?” 

Joe considered. “I don’t know,” he said. “I 
like it when the ’armonium screeches.” 

Cynthia shuddered. 


A MEDLEY 


219 


“Now have I winned the prize?” And this time 
he succeeded in rolling off the bed on to the floor. 

“Yes; you got almost full marks. You will find 
the prize in that cardboard box on my dressing- 
table—take care of the bottles. ...” 

It took a long time to get a trunk call through 
to Thatches, and when Mellory did get the con¬ 
nection, Russell didn’t seem to hear her very well, 
and she found it difficult to hear Russell. Cook 
refused ever to tamper with the telephone; she 
said it made her that nervous. By degrees, how¬ 
ever, Mellory discovered that Mrs. Boase was, 
at all events, no worse, and that, so far, nobody 
else had got it, so she decided that she might 
delay her return till next day. 

Cynthia had followed her into the room where 
the telephone was, and listened to the one-sided 
conversation. She had already had a hot argu¬ 
ment with Cynthia as to the necessity for her to 
go back at all. 

“I don’t wonder she’s got congestion of the 
lungs,” Cynthia said indignantly, when the call 
was over. “After what Joe told me I don’t be¬ 
lieve it’s ’flu at all, and if it is, why should you 
go back to nurse her? Probably you’ll get it, 
too, and what good’s that? Those two sensible 
women can manage her perfectly, and if they 
can’t, why not send for a nurse? You’ll only 
make more work for them by going back. Of 
course, we’ll keep Joe and Margot, and I’d like 
to lock you in a room and keep you here as well.” 

“But, Cynthia, I can’t leave her to the serv¬ 
ants; it isn’t fair to them.” 


220 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“All this tiresome fuss,” Cynthia continued, 
“comes of your dreadful weakness of character, 
Mellory. You let people impose upon you and 
fasten upon you till it drives sane people of ordi¬ 
nary stability perfectly mad.” 

“You talk as if I liked it,” Mellory said rue¬ 
fully. 

“You must like it, else you wouldn’t do it, but 
you can’t expect the rest of us to bear it patiently 
forever. I swallowed the orphan asylum because 
I happen to like the orphan, but this turning 
of Thatches into an almshouse for indigent inva¬ 
lids and clergy-widows as well is outrageous. It 
isn’t fair to Joe or any of us. How long are you 
going to keep this ridiculous woman and her 
harmonium?” 

“I can’t choose the moment when she is down 
with ’flu to turn her out, can I?” 

“I’m convinced she’ll be a most odious invalid 
—but, at any rate, she can’t play the harmonium 
and take baths in a through draught just now.” 

“Cynthia, may I have another trunk call?” 

“What do you want another trunk call for? 
Is it those unspeakable Joneses this time?” 

Little Mellory stood in front of her tall sister 
like a guilty schoolgirl. Downcast and red, she 
faltered: “Mr. Mill asked me to dine and do a 
play with him . . . and I thought I’d better tell 
him I can’t . . . the Home Office ...” 

“Goose!” Cynthia exclaimed. “Why should 
you not dine with him to-night and do a play? 
If you must rush off in this insane fashion to look 
after that snuffling widow, you may as well have 
a little chirp first. Here, give me the telephone— 


A MEDLEY 


221 


you have found the number—what’s his exten¬ 
sion? Never mind, I’ll get it. Go away. I’m 
going to fix up this.” 

“Wait, Cynthia; where can I sleep?” 

Cynthia shook her head impatiently, and de¬ 
manded, “Trunks, please.” 

It took ages to get John, but when at last they 
were through Cynthia and he heard each other 
perfectly, and it was arranged that if he couldn’t 
get a room for Mellory at her club he’d try for 
one at the Paddington Hotel, so that she would 
be on the spot for her train next morning. He 
would meet her at Victoria, and take her wher¬ 
ever he had succeeded in getting a room. Then 
they’d dine together and go to anything he could 
get tickets for. 

Cynthia was radiant, and so eager to speed the 
parting guest that Mellory wondered whether she 
wasn’t rather glad to have Joe all to herself. 

Mellory went to look for Joe, but he was not 
with Margot, and presently Margot returned to 
say that Sir Geoffrey had taken Joe with him. 

Flustered and upset, though not altogether un¬ 
pleasantly, Mellory went off to pack, only to find 
that Mander had already done most of it. 

With nothing particular to do, she was seized 
with a poignant longing for Joe. He had never 
been left without her except at Thatches for a 
rare single night. 

Would he be homesick and unhappy in this 
big house? 

Would he miss his Mell? 

Curious how, of all her near relatives, only the 


222 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


childless Cynthia and Geoff and old Aunt Helena 
at Hove had any real kindness for little Joe. 
Florence and Maude and Anthony accepted the 
inevitable, it is true, but always made her feel 
their tacit disapproval. Her brother in India 
hardly ever mentioned him when he wrote. 

She went back to Cynthia, who was standing 
by an open window in the drawing-room—a win¬ 
dow that looked down the main drive. 

Geoff and little Joe were coming towards the 
house hand in hand, and they could hear the 
high, clear little voice with its incessant questions. 

A spasm of pain contorted Cynthia’s face, but 
Mellory did not see it. All her eyes were for the 
small bare-headed figure that trotted by Geoff’s 
side. 

“He’s such a real boy, isn’t he?” she said 
proudly. 

Cynthia made a queer sound, as if she was in 
pain, and fled from the room. 

Startled and distressed, Mellory looked after 
her, understood, sighed, and then hurried down¬ 
stairs and out on to the front steps. She was 
sorry for Cynthia—but . . . Joe was her very 
own little boy. 

Mellory’s departure after lunch was explained 
to Joe. He was quite reasonable, expressed per¬ 
functory sorrow that poor Mittis Boase was ill, 
kissed his Mell, and returned to play with the 
morning’s “prize”—a tiny train that the card¬ 
board box had contained. 

So Mellory departed, glad that Joe had been 


WHICH IS SHORT 223 

so sensible, but a little crestfallen that he should 
appear to miss her so little. 

All went well until bedtime, and when he was 
ready Cynthia, as Mell’s representative, went to 
hear him say his prayers. He looked at her and 
shook his head. “No,” he said, “Mell must come. 
I want her. Please fesh her.” 

“You can’t have Mell to-night, darling,” Cyn¬ 
thia explained patiently; “she has gone back to 
Thatches to nurse her sick . . . friend.” 

“I want to go back to Thatches, too. I want 
Mell.” 

“Dear little Joe, you must manage without 
Mell for a day or two. You’ll soon see her again, 
but you can’t see her to-night. Think—you’ve 
got Margot and Simpie and Zeff—you’re quite 
well off. Say your prayers at once now, like a 
good little boy.” 

Joe’s mouth took on an obstinate twist. “I 
s’all not say any prayers till Mell comes. I want 
her, I tell you.” 

He stood on the hearthrug, a small, defiant 
figure in minute blue pyjamas. 

Margot had already discovered his misgivings 
as to the absence of Mell, but she never inter¬ 
fered with authority, and in the background, 
busied herself in folding up small discarded gar¬ 
ments. 

“Do be a good boy,” Cynthia besought him, 
“and say your prayers, and let me kiss you and 
tuck you in your nice little bed.” 

“You can kiss me if you want to,” Joe said, 
with a choke, “but I don’t say no prayers, not 
without Mell. I want her. She’s got to come 


224 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


back. If she won’t come back I’m going to her. 
I want to go to Thatches. I want my own beau¬ 
tiful lovely home where Mell is. I don’t want 
to stay here.” 

“Not with Zeff?” 

Joe wavered; then suddenly his face crumpled 
up, and he bawled at the top of his voice: “I 
want Mell. I want her, I tell you. I’m mizzable 
and I don’t like it.” 

Dinner was delayed that night at Waring Dean 
till Joe, in Margot’s arms, had cried himself to 
sleep. But even for Margot he wouldn’t say his 
prayers. 


VII 


WHICH IS SHORT 

They dined together at the Berkeley—a good 
dinner—and John, who had never happened to 
dine there before, decided that it was a delightful 
place and ought to be encouraged. And this all 
because Mellory was sitting at his table, gay and 
pleased, in what Cynthia called “an amusing little 
dress” of blues and mauves that suggested Japan. 
Her pretty, rounded neck was bare. She wore 
the string of pearls that Joe had broken—strongly 
threaded now, with a knot between each—and it 
seemed to John that she looked absolutely and 
entirely right. 

She was wont to say of herself that she was so 
nondescript, nobody ever knew her again unless 
Dinah or Joe was with her. To John, however, 
this very inconspicuousness was an additional 
charm. There were plenty of women whose ap¬ 
pearance hit you between the eyes, whose charms 
were put in italics, whose goods were all in the 
shop window. With Mellory you had to know 
her before you realised that her little face was 
delicately modelled, her eyes limpid and sincere 
as a child’s, her skin fine with soft colouring like 
the inside of a shell. Though there were lines 
on the tranquil forehead and about her eyes, she 
looked much younger to-night than when he first 

225 


226 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


saw her. The supreme interest that had come 
into her life with little Joe had brightened her 
eyes and given her poise. Her manner was gentle 
as ever, but it was no longer timid, for her whole 
bearing was charged with that secret triumph 
which occasionally manifests itself in the meekest 
of mothers, who have something to be proud of. 

As she sat in the train going back to Thatches 
she couldn’t remember much about the play she 
had seen the night before. She had enjoyed it 
immensely; but all that remained of it was the 
nearness of John. There they were, just the two 
of them, deliciously alone together in that theatre 
full of people. And it was strange and lovely and 
unforgettable. 

Mellory knew enough about clothes to see that 
John’s were shockingly old and of antique cut. 
Fresh from the always immaculate Geoff, perhaps 
it struck her the more forcibly. She was sorry 
about the clothes, but they only made her feel 
more tender towards John, that nobody took 
sufficient interest in him to tell him how badly 
he needed new ones. What were those nieces 
about—and his sisters? Poor, conscientious, 
serviceable suit of black! How pathetic it was! 

How charming of him to come so early to see 
her off and bring a basket of grapes for Mrs. 
Boase! It was delightful to have someone to find 
luggage and get porters, and tip guards, and load 
one with papers and magazines. 

So far it had always been Mellory’s lot in life 
to look after other people: to find seats for them 
in crowded carriages, to carry heavy suitcases 
when porters were scarce, to make all and every 


WHICH IS SHORT 


227 


arrangement for their comfort at the expense of 
her own. From the moment she had arrived at 
Victoria till she left Paddington next day, every¬ 
thing had been arranged for her, every possible 
thing had been done to make her way smooth 
and easy. “That’s what it would be,” she thought, 
“to have a man of your own. Not brothers, cer¬ 
tainly not brothers-in-law, but your man.” 

Then, just as she had faced her most secret 
thoughts the night that Molly died, so now did 
she question herself as to whether she would be 
ready to relinquish her independence, if John did 
ask her to marry him. 

She honestly owned to the secret monitor that 
searched her heart, that she had thoroughly 
enjoyed the last three years: the ruling and 
arranging of her life as seemed good to her; the 
choosing of her way after such long travelling in 
paths beaten out by other feet. 

Yet surely it would be rather delightful to have 
someone to lean on if the way happened to be 
beset, as it often was, with difficulties—someone 
who would be helpful without being dictatorial; 
someone who would always understand. 

She gave herself a little shake. How silly to 
drift into thinking about marriage at her age. 
When, too, she had vowed just before she started 
that she would enjoy John’s friendship without 
any foolish sentimental imaginings. He was 
probably just as kind to everyone he saw across 
London. Perhaps, now that he could afford it, 
he constantly took people out to dinner and to 
the play. It was probably the commonest inci¬ 
dent to him. 


228 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


But deep down in her own heart—the big, 
honest heart that loved truth and hated humbug 
—she was certain that he did nothing of the kind. 

Cheap cynicism declared that women of her age 
were particularly foolish and ready to imagine 
any man, who was decently civil, was in love with 
them. She would never make things uncomfort¬ 
able for him in that dreadful way. If he cared 
for her he would tell her so in his own good time. 
If he didn’t care for her “like that,” she would 
be a delightful friend to him always, and ask for 
nothing more. . . . 

And, having come to this eminently sensible 
conclusion, she seemed to feel again the long, 
warm clasp of his hand as they parted at Pad¬ 
dington, and a poem her mother was fond of sang 
in her head: 

“Yet I will but say what mere friends say, 

Or only a thought stronger; 

I will hold your hand but as long as all may, 

Or so very little longer.” 

Mrs. Boase, flushed and hoarse and apologetic, 
was yet delighted to see Mellory, and she “con¬ 
sidered” it most kind of Mr. Mill to send the 
grapes. She was, she declared, “round the cor¬ 
ner,” and that if Providence was determined she 
should have “ ’flu” she couldn’t have had it in a 
better place. 

Mellory couldn’t endorse this when next day 
Russell went down with it, and cook followed the 
day after that. 

The ’flu fiend raged over the countryside just 


A MEDLEY 


229 


then, and no nurse was obtainable. Mrs. Hum- 
pidge came and lent a hand, and Bill Baldwin 
proved himself indeed a handy man. Mellory 
could hardly have got through that time without 
him, for he didn't confine his activities to carry¬ 
ing coals or stoking stoves; he carried trays up¬ 
stairs, he cleaned the kitchen for Mrs. Humpidge, 
he made toast and gruel, and did all and every 
sort of message on the garage bicycle with a speed 
and resourceful commonsense that were beyond 
praise. 

Although she was constantly busy, the house 
seemed empty, and hungry, and yearning. Every¬ 
where there were traces of little Joe, and because 
Mellory had so much more to do than usual, so 
much the more did Joe’s absence make itself felt, 
for wherever she went she came across absurd 
small things that proclaimed him. The morning 
that she found a leaden soldier called “General 
Gobble” keeping guard over the hot-water cans 
in Russell’s cupboard she nearly wept, for she 
realised that the meticulously tidy Russell had 
left it there because it was Joe’s, and a part of 
one of those mysterious games that led his little 
trotting feet into every corner of the house. 

It was a whole fortnight before the invalids 
were all three convalescent and the doctor de¬ 
clared the house sufficiently disinfected for Mar¬ 
got and Joe to come home. 

And during all that time Joe had persisted in 
his refusal to say his prayers. He wouldn’t beg 
for a blessing on Mell or Margot or Simpie or 
Zeff or himself if Mell was not there to hear him 
do it. 


230 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


Mell was told by letter of this continuancy, and 
she prayed extra hard for her little boy herself. 
It was a wrong-headed manifestation of loyalty, 
but . . . she was not nearly so shocked as she 
ought to have been. 


VIII 


“WHEREVER SHE GOES” 

Six weeks later, and Sunday afternoon at 
Thatches. A lovely February afternoon, and a 
robin was singing in an apple-tree. The promise 
of spring was in the air. The late snowdrops 
were now at their best, and little Joe had gath¬ 
ered a big bunch of them “with long stalks,” to 
take to Margot’s mother, for it was her birthday. 

Mellory was standing in the drive, for she had 
just seen them off in the hired pony-trap directly 
after lunch, to spend the afternoon and have tea 
over at Easterhayes. Mrs. Pullin had specially 
invited Joe and Dinah, and it was a great festa. 

She watched the pony-trap turn out of the 
drive, and then sauntered down herself to admire 
the blaze of aconites growing in the high banks 
on either side. 

There was in the air that indescribable vibrat¬ 
ing, delicious smell of green things that push and * 
stir in good leaf-mould that has hidden them all 
the winter. The sweetness and the Sabbath peace 
wrapped her round, warm with the spring sun¬ 
shine that flecked the drive with patches of 
shadow from the leafless trees—shadows that 
moved lightly as a half-awakened sleeper re¬ 
sponds to the touch of a loved and gentle hand. 

She felt happy and well, and full of loving- 

231 


232 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


kindness towards all the world—even towards 
Mrs. Boase, who had exclaimed, “How nice!” 
seven times during lunch. 

She had reached the few yards of level before 
the sharp descent to the gate, and was standing 
still to admire the lovely light upon the greens 
and browns of the cottage thatch, when the 
blessed silence was shattered by the poor doctor’s 
gramophone, and through the open window a 
raucous voice rushed out, noisily announcing, 
“Another little drink won’t do us any harm.” 

She was only too familiar with this dreadful 
tune, for it was a favourite with the doctor. It 
reminded him of cheerful “leafs” spent in Lon¬ 
don, and jolly nights with boon companions be¬ 
fore that bursting shell had gazetted him a life¬ 
long “leaf” with no power to go anywhere. 

It was always happening, this crashing jar that 
jerked her back to unpleasant realities. She hated 
that gramophone more intensely each time she 
heard it, and . . . there was nothing to be done. 

No one could be cruel enough to deprive the 
man of any poor little pleasure that Fate had 
left him. And yet . . . 

A moment before she was living in a pretty 
world where robins sang, and happy little boys 
gathered snowdrops; where sunshine and sweet 
scents filled the heart with consciousness of the 
goodness of God and love of man. 

Now she was flung headlong into this inferno 
of vulgar noise and ineptitude. She never got a 
bit more used to it. 

She put her hands over her ears and hurried up 
the drive again. 


“WHEREVER SHE GOES” 


233 


Ah! that was better. On the terrace it was 
fainter, though still painfully perceptible. 

She went round behind the house so that it 
came between her and the sound. 

The dining-room was at the back, and its 
windows looked out upon a square lawn with a 
sundial in the centre, and at each corner a little 
box-tree clipped flat like a table. 

Joe’s wheelbarrow was on the lawn, and each 
tree was decorated by one of his toys. An ele¬ 
phant, a lamb, a teddy-bear, and a most realistic 
duck. Each animal sat solemnly on his little tree, 
and seemed to protest against the carelessness 
that left them there a prey to any sort of weather 
that came along. 

Margot must have been very flustered by the 
party to have forgotten them. She had been 
rather forgetful lately. Mellory reflected, and 
went round the lawn collecting the animals to 
put them in the wheelbarrow and take them in. 

It was pleasant and quiet on that lawn, quite 
warm enough to sit out for half an hour. She’d 
get a chair and a book. . . . 

She was on her way to put the wheelbarrow 
under cover when the harmonium started. A 
few chords, and the strong soprano voice of Mrs. 
Boase, no whit impaired by her illness, pro¬ 
claimed : 


“The world is very evil, 

The times are waxing late.” 

Mellory thrust the wheelbarrow into the porch 
and fled to the path that led to the wood. The 


234 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


doctor’s gramophone was now performing “And 
when I told them how beautiful you are . . . 
they wouldn’t believe me, they wouldn’t believe 
me.” 

Every Sunday Mrs. Boase held what she called 
“a service of song” from three to four. It was, 
for her, a sort of religious observance in memory 
of her husband. She sang all his favourite hymns 
and “sacred” songs. She had asked Mellory’s 
permission to do this when she first came, and 
as Mellory usually took charge of little Joe at this 
time, it seemed to her the happiest arrangement. 
On fine afternoons they went for a walk out of 
earshot, and when it was wet they played noisy 
games in the nursery. Sometimes he demanded 
“Beekinetwit” at the same time as Mrs. Boase’s 
service, but that Mellory always refused. She 
didn’t care for Mrs. Boase’s voice, and loathed the 
harmonium, but she was too sympathetic and too 
gentle to deny her this solace, if solace it was. 
Mrs. Boase often emerged tearful after the per¬ 
formance, but wouldn’t have missed it for the 
world. She would have liked an audience. She 
had, indeed, with Mellory’s permission, invited 
whichever of the maids was in on Sunday after¬ 
noons to come and listen whenever they liked, 
but none of them availed themselves of the 
privilege. 

Russell confided to cook that she “didn’t, so 
to speak, fancy hymns except in church,” and 
cook infinitely preferred a quiet snooze to the 
best music ever offered. “I don’t mind it in the 
distance, it never worries me,” cook said, toler¬ 
antly; “and it certainly sounds better if anyone 


“WHEREVER SHE GOES” 


235 


calls, and more respectable than that there gram¬ 
ophone and its comic songs, or the sort of dances 
Miss Upton plays to Master Joe. I like Sundays 
to be Sundays, and so I always say.” 

Mellory climbed the steep path to the wood. 
Still she could hear the doctor’s gramophone: “I 
stopped and I looked and I listened. ...” 

Well, she didn’t want to listen, anyway, and 
the world was very evil, a horrid, noisy place in 
which foolish, weak-willed women got themselves 
into the most dreadful tangles . . . with no one 
to extricate them. 

Would she have to go on all through life listen¬ 
ing to gramophones and harmoniums that she 
hated? 

Was there no way out? 

Cynthia conjured her to be firm. 

John Mill, in his last letter, had pointed out 
that now Mrs. Boase had recovered it would be 
a good time to suggest that a change would be 
the best thing possible for her. But Cynthia and 
John hadn’t got to break it to Mrs. Boase, who, 
since her illness, was more clinging and affection¬ 
ate than ever, more eager to “save” Mellory in 
every possible way—more effusive in her expres¬ 
sions of happiness and content. 

The gramophone was having a rest, but the 
harmonium was still quite audible, and Mrs. 
Boase passionately pointed out “What various 
hindrances we meet, In coming to the Mercy 
seat.” 

At that moment Mellory felt that the hind¬ 
rances she met with were almost insurmountable. 


236 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“Have we no words? Ah, think again: 

Words flow apace when we complain, 

And fill a fellow-creature’s ear 
With the sad tale of all our care.” 

She had no fellow-creature handy, otherwise 
she knew she could have deafened him with her 
complaints. 

“Him”! 

Why not “her”? 

But if she complained to anybody they would 
justly point out that the whole thing was her own 
fault. 

She had reached the little wood. No longer 
could she hear the words as Mrs. Boase sang. 
The gramophone had ceased for the moment. 

Was it the same robin who started to sing his 
song of coming summer? Kind, cheerful little 
bird. There was something so innocent and 
happy in this song that the tears welled up into 
Mellory’s eyes. She was tired. Life lately had 
got rather on the top of her. She sat down on 
the very fallen tree from which Bill Baldwin had 
scrounged those logs, and burst into tears. 

After all, she had probably been mistaken. 
John didn’t care for her that way. It was just 
the kindness he showed to everyone . . . and 
she ought to be thankful that he liked her even 
in that other way. 

But she had thought . . . 

She had hoped . . . 

It was no use pretending to herself—she had 
hoped. 

It was quiet in the little wood. She had 
climbed the crest of the hill and gone down a 


“WHEREVER SHE GOES” 237 

little way on the other side. She could hardly 
hear Mrs. Boase now. 

She would have her cry out, and perhaps she’d 
feel more sensible presently. All the time one 
of Joe’s rhymes kept repeating itself over and 
over in her mind: 

“Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, 

And see a fine lady upon a white horse, 

With rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, 

And she shall have music wherever she goes.” 

She wasn’t a fine lady. She didn’t posses a 
white horse or bells on her toes, but the last line 
was cruelly, devastatingly true of her. 

“She shall have music wherever she goes.” 

Mellory cried and cried. 


IX 


THE DELIVERER 

The quickest way to Thatches from the village 
was to climb the steep field, go on up the hill 
through the wood, and down the other side till 
you came to the kitchen garden. But hardly 
anyone used that way in winter except Bill 
Baldwin. Hearing steps behind her, Mellory 
concluded that it must be Bill going to shut his 
frames before tea. 

She didn’t turn round because she was afraid 
he might see she had been crying. She sat 
forward with bent shoulders, trying to look as 
if she were absorbed in a book. 

The steps got slower, stopped, then came on 
quickly towards her. 

“How tiresome of Bill to want to ask me 
something just now!” she thought. Perhaps if 
she took no notice he’d think better of it. 

On came the steps: over dead leaves and 
crackling underwood. Surely he would have the 
sense to see that she didn’t want to be disturbed. 
Furtively, she mopped her eyes and nose. 

The steps were right behind her. Something 
compelled her to turn round, and she found 
herself looking up, not at Bill Baldwin, but at 
John Mill. And when he saw her little ravaged 
face he forgot all the speeches he had prepared 

238 


THE DELIVERER 239 

so carefully, and exclaimed: “My dear, what on 
earth is the matter? Why are you crying?” 

She rose to her feet. Her breath came fast, 
and she stared at him as though he were a 
ghost. 

“You!” she said. “When did you come?” 

“It's no use. I couldn’t keep away any longer. 
I came down to the Prescotts last night, and I’ve 
walked over by the fields. . . . What has hap¬ 
pened? Why are you crying?” 

“Was it ‘my dear’ you said?” she asked irrele¬ 
vantly. 

“It was. Are you angry? Because you know 
you are my very dearest dear. Haven’t you 
known it for ages?” 

“Not known it,” she whispered. “I hoped it— 
but I could never feel sure—and I could always 
feel that it was silly of me—so I grew frightened. 
. . . Do you mean it?” 

“Mean it!” he repeated. “You’ll soon see 
whether I mean it. But what of you?” 

* * * * * 

Side by side, and exceedingly close together, 
they were sitting on the fallen tree. It was such 
a golden afternoon, and they were so wonderfully 
and beautifully alone in that wood. 

“Why were you crying?” he asked. “You 
haven’t told me.” 

“Partly it was Dr. Jones’s gramophone and 
Mrs. Boase’s harmonium and Mrs. Boase herself, 
singing. ...” 

“Quite enough to make anybody cry. It sounds 
a dreadful combination.” 



240 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“It was . . . but it wasn’t that altogether. . . . ” 

“What else was it? You must tell me. I can’t 
bear you to be unhappy. If I can help it you 
shall never cry again except from happiness. . . . 
I could cry myself now . . . from that. Tell me!” 

“It was you—partly.” 

“Me!” 

“Yes, you. Because I was afraid I should never 
be any more to you than I was—only a sort of a 
‘sincerely’ for ever.” 

“But you couldn’t be much more to me than 
you’ve been from the first moment I saw 


“What I thought I was, perhaps, was just a 
pleasant little woman in whom you took an 
interest because of Joe. I wonder what he will 
say?” 

“I wonder what everybody will say. May I 
tell the Prescotts to-night?” 

“Oh, no, not on any account, John dear. Don’t 
tell anybody yet. Let us have a little tiny time 
of happiness just for ourselves. It’s so wonder¬ 
ful. I couldn’t tell anybody yet.” 

“I want to proclaim it from the house-tops. I 
want to swank. I want the whole world to know 
what a lucky chap I am . . . but, of course, I 
shall do as you wish—in this, and everything 
else.” 

“Must you go back to-morrow?” 

“I’m afraid so—but I’ll come down next week 
again, and by then perhaps we’ll have had it in 
The Times , and then it won’t matter who knows.” 

Mellory shook her head. “Promise me,” she 



THE DELIVERER 


241 


said, “that you won’t tell anybody till I give you 
leave. I want to think about it. I want to gloat 
over it. I want to realise it myself first.” 

“I,” he said briskly, “want to marry you just as 
soon as ever it can be managed.” 

“I’ll marry you to-morrow, if you like,” she 
said, “but you mustn’t tell anybody yet. Prom¬ 
ise me, please.” 

It was tea-time, and together they went 
through the wood and down by the kitchen 
garden. Mellory’s hair was dishevelled and her 
radiant face tear-stained. When John followed 
her into the drawing-room Mrs. Boase was sitting 
by the fire in patient expectation of tea. 

It was nearly five o’clock. 

“I’m afraid the water has boiled away some¬ 
what,” she said, in gently reproachful tones. 
“The kettle has been boiling for nearly half an 
hour, but I didn’t like to make the tea till you 
came, as I know you don’t like it strong ...” 
and she saw John. Mellory presented him, and 
Mrs. Boase added to the introduction her inevi¬ 
table remark on such occasions: “Boase, to rhyme 
with nose.” 

It was one of those “little jokes” that she con¬ 
sidered did so much to enliven social existence. 

She was interested in John, and told him so. 

“Of course,” she said brightly, “your name is 
quite a household word here, and I’ve been 
hoping for a long time past to make your ac¬ 
quaintance. Your godson talks a great deal 
about you. It’s a pity you’ve missed him this 
afternoon. You’ll see a difference, I’m sure. 
He grows like asparagus—or is it French beans 


242 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


that grow so fast? I’m no gardener. Now dear 
Miss Upton is, not only in theory, but in practice. 
I often say, ‘Really, dear Miss Upton, you’ll over¬ 
tire yourself.’ You’ve no conception what a lot 
of looking after she needs. I do my best, but she 
is rather wilful sometimes, as I dare say you’ve 
already discovered by this time.” 

Mrs. Boase paused and looked archly at John, 
who made the expected sympathetic noise, and 
she continued, with increased vivacity: “I had 
such a lovely practice this afternoon. Are you 
fond of music, Mr. Mill? Do you perform your¬ 
self? As I dare say you know, dear Miss Upton 
plays the piano most beautifully. I prefer the 
more serious instrument myself, just as I prefer 
the more solid music. If one has been brought 
up, as it were, on Handel and Mendelssohn’s 
oratorios, one doesn’t easily accustom oneself to 
anything inferior. Miss Upton and I have long 
discussions. She likes so many of these modern 
Russians—Bolshevists I call them—and I’m 
afraid she’ll never convince me.” 

She rippled on happily. Surely Miss Upton 
was strangely distrait and silent. Mrs. Boase 
felt that it devolved upon her to entertain this 
pleasant-looking elderly man, lest he should feel 
awkward and unwanted. Miss Upton might at 
least have made an excuse and gone to do her 
hair before tea. She looked downright untidy, 
and had a long smudge on one cheek. What 
could he think? 

It was perhaps as well that Mrs. Boase was 
not clairvoyante, for had she been able to read 
his thoughts just then her very neat hair would 


THE DELIVERER 243 

have stood on end at the violence of the language 
in which they were expressed. 

Only one thing mattered. Would the woman 
go to church? Would he get a few minutes alone 
with Mellory before he must go back to the 
Prescotts for supper? 

If she had allowed him to tell the Prescotts 
he could have rung up there and then and stayed 
to supper with her, though it wouldn’t have been 
much pleasure if that infernal woman was to be 
there all the time. Cynthia, at her very worst, 
had never used such language about Mrs. Boase 
as John was using just then. 

Russell had taken away the tea-things, and it 
was six o’clock. 

Still Mrs. Boase made no move. John got up 
at that instant. Mrs. Boase also rose. “If you 
are going by the village,” she said sweetly, “our 
ways lie together so far, as I’m going to church. 
If you don’t mind waiting just a second till I get 
my hat and coat.” 

John gazed helplessly at Mellory, a blighted 
man. 

She laughed. “Let her get ready, then I’ll say 
you must wait and see little Joe. Don’t look so 
miserable, my dear.” 

John took hold of her by the shoulders and 
shook her gently. “You mustn’t let me see much 
of that lady,” he said, “or I won’t be responsible 
for the consequences.” 

“Quick!” said Mellory; “go out by the window 
and I’ll tell her.” 

Mrs. Boase came back smart and expectant. 

“Mr. Mill is not going yet,” Mellory said 


244 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


firmly. “He must wait to see Joe. I hope you’ll 
have a nice service.” 

“But where is he?” Mrs. Boase demanded. 

“Somewhere about the garden,” Mellory said. 
“He has gone out to look at the sunset. Ah! 
there is Joe—I hear the pony-trap.” 

As Mrs. Boase went down the drive she told 
herself that really dear Miss Upton was getting 
rather odd to detain a guest forcibly like that, 
when he wanted to go. She never seemed to 
realise what a bore that baby could be. 

When John left Mellory walked with him to 
the drive gate, and he took her in his arms and 
kissed her to the strains of the doctor’s gramo¬ 
phone, which asked: “When we are married, dear, 
what will you do?” 

“One thing I’ll jolly well do,” thought John, 
“is to take her out of this. Good heavens! What 
a life!” 

After a supper when Mrs. Boase was less talka¬ 
tive than usual, because she was just a little bit 
offended by Mellory’s forcible retention of John, 
Mellory went upstairs to see Margot and to hear 
about the tea-party. 

“Yes, mum, Master Joe’s been the very best 
of little boys. He sang for them, and said his 
bits of poetry that pretty right into grand¬ 
father’s ear so’s he shouldn’t miss it, an’ him so 
deaf. He was pleased.” 

“And was it a large party, Margot? Were you 
all there?” 

“All but my second brother, mum, the one in 
Birmiggum; he couldn’t get back.” 


THE DELIVERER 


245 


“And were there friends as well as the family?” 

Margot twisted her fingers together and hesi¬ 
tated a minute before she said with nervous 
abruptness: “My boy was there, mum. Lve been 
wanting to tell you some days now and didn’t 
seem to be able to, somehow. I’ve got a boy.” 

“But how exciting, Margot! Who is he?” 

“That’s why I found it so difficult to tell you, 
mum. It’s Bill Baldwin, and I’m afraid you 
mayn’t like it because he’s here, always about; 
an’ you know, mum, I can't keep Master Joe 
away from him. Truly I’ve tried, an’ I haven’t 
run after Bill—never once, I haven’t; but Master 
Joe always wants to go and see him, an’ will 
stop, an’ follows him about just like Dinah does 
you; an’ somehow we was always coming across 
each other, an’ he says he fancied me from the 
very first—an’ mother said I must tell you at 
once. Do you object, mum?” 

“Why should I object? He seems an excel¬ 
lent and industrious young man. Are you sure 
you love him, Margot?” 

Margot lifted her downcast eyes and met 
Mellory’s. “I’m afraid I fancied him from the 
very first, too, mum, an’ not at all because he’s 
industrious, but because . . . It’s his eyes, 

mum—they seemed to put a sort of spell on me 
even when I thought him a bit of a rascal. . . . 
And I do believe if he was a rascal I’d have to 
go after him just the same. You see, he doesn’t 
like me because I’m respectable and in a good 
situation, an’ all that. He likes me”—and Mar¬ 
got whispered it very low—“because he thinks me 
a slap-up pretty girl. ...” 


246 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“So you are,” Mellory said heartily, “but you’re 
a lot more besides, and I’m certain Bill Baldwin 
is quite clever enough to see it. Will you be 
wanting to get married very soon, Margot?” 

“Not for a year, mum; but then . . . that’s 
what’s worrying mother ... he wants me to 
go to Australia with him . . . an’ I shall be 
bound to go—though it’ll break my heart to leave 
you an’ Master Joe, an’ mother an’ all . . . but 
where he goes I must follow after. It’s like that.” 

“I know,” Mellory said. “I understand per¬ 
fectly. It is like that.” 


X 


HER WAY 

All that week till Friday evening, when John 
was to come, Mellory lived in a happy dream. 
Each morning she got a letter. Each evening 
he rang her up. In every letter and every time 
he spoke to her he pressed her to let him tell 
everybody. She wrote him long, tender, intimate 
letters about everything else, but never referred 
to that; and when she spoke to him, her beseech¬ 
ing little voice came to him timid and pleading, 
always with the entreaty to wait until he had 
seen her again. 

John was puzzled and rather perturbed. He 
was assured that she loved him. There was never 
the slightest demur as to their getting married 
directly it could be arranged; but how could it 
be arranged if their engagement was not an¬ 
nounced and the machinery put in motion? 

He realised that she was tired and nervy. His 
very brief experience of Mrs. Boase enabled him 
to understand the strain that Mellory had en¬ 
dured for some time. But surely the announce¬ 
ment of their approaching marriage would help 
to put an end to it. The woman couldn’t have 
the face to stay on at Thatches after that. If 
she did, then Cynthia must be imported to deal 

247 


248 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


with the situation. He had great faith in Cyn¬ 
thia’s directness. 

There were his own people to consider, too. 
His sisters would undoubtedly be astonished and 
not too pleased. He had no intention of with¬ 
drawing the financial assistance he had given to 
Emily ever since his parents died. He would 
still do what he could for his nephews and nieces, 
especially Pamela, but they must all clearly un¬ 
derstand that Mellory, and little Joe because he 
was Mellory’s, came a long way first; and that 
Mellory alone would really have any say in his 
future life. 

Then there were the Prescotts, those lifelong 
kindly friends. It seemed so wrong-headed, some¬ 
how, not to let them share and rejoice in his 
happiness, as he knew they would. 

Funny little Mellory! He guessed that all the 
criticism and fuss and displeasure when she 
adopted Joe was still sharply painful in her 
memory, and that she dreaded something of the 
same sort now. But why should there be any¬ 
thing of the kind? 

On the whole, he believed that her family 
would rejoice that she should marry him. He 
knew that they all lived in a state of constant 
apprehension as to what Mellory might do next. 
He could make her life safer and more comfort¬ 
able financially. He could help her with little 
Joe, and he could and would stand between her 
and such sharp-sighted limpets as tried to fasten 
themselves upon her trustful and generous na¬ 
ture. 

What in the world was she waiting for? 


HER WAY 


249 


He drafted an announcement for The Times 
and carried it about in his pocket, reading it at 
intervals. They would send it off when he was 
down at Thatches. 

Surely the ubiquitous Mrs. Boase would have 
the decency to leave them alone as much as 
possible. 

Announcement or no announcement, she must, 
unless she was stone-blind, see how the land lay. 

Anyway, he was going to his Mellory the day 
after to-morrow, and there must be no more 
nonsense. 

He could never deal otherwise than gently 
with her, for she always gave him such an im¬ 
pression of fragility, and that she might so 
easily be broken if handled in the least roughly. 
Yet at the same time he knew that her will 
was as tempered steel. Flexible, perhaps, but 
amazingly strong. 

The Marlehouse Choral Society was giving 
“The Messiah” at its annual concert, and Mellory 
had taken tickets for herself and Mrs. Boase 
weeks ago. The thrice-blessed concert took place 
on the very Friday evening that John came. The 
same motor that brought John to Thatches took 
Mrs. Boase and Mrs. Jones back to the concert. 
A trustworthy person had been found to leave in 
charge of the doctor till they got back. 

Even Mrs. Boase could have found no fault 
with Mellory’s hair that evening, and she wore 
the same Japanesy little dress she had worn when 
she dined with John at the Berkeley. 

By some pervasive, enveloping, delicious means 
she made him feel not only her lover and her 


250 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


guest, but master of her house, of her, and of 
everything that was hers. 

She gave him a thoroughly good dinner at a 
softly lighted table in a gracious room, where 
the dreadful “orgum” was covered with a dark 
rug, and its yellow bulk was merged into the 
shadowy walls. 

John felt at peace with all the world as he sat 
smoking in the drawing-room afterwards. He 
had got her, this darling woman that he wanted 
so. And he believed he could make her do any¬ 
thing just because he wanted it. Now was the 
moment to end all this silly secrecy. 

The draft of the announcement for The Times 
was in his pocket. 

Russell had taken the coffee cups. No one 
was likely to disturb them for a good hour, 
anyhow. 

She was kneeling on the hearthrug in front of 
the fire, one bare arm across his knees. 

He stooped and kissed it, and gave her the 
sheet of paper with the question. “Will this do? 
Shall we post it to-morrow and tell everyone at 
once?” 

“Oh, John, must we—tell everyone now, at 
once?” 

“Well, the sooner it’s announced, the sooner 
we can get married. I don’t see how anyone can 
object.” 

“There won’t be any objections. They’ll all 
be so pleased and think it so sensible, and there 
will be the usual fuss and congratulations and 
presents, and a dreadful wedding with lots of 
relations and ... I don’t think I can bear it,” 


HER WAY 


251 


“My dear, I hate all the fuss just every bit as 
much as you do, but how is it to be avoided? 
We can say it shall be as quiet as possible, but 
we must get married.” 

“I want to be married to you . . . more than 
anything in the world. I wish I was married to 
you now, this minute—but not that way. Not 
the way that means quantities of new clothes that 
we don’t need. ...” 

“I believe I do need some new clothes rather 
badly,” John interposed. 

“You do. You do indeed. Well, you shall have 
the trousseau, and I must choose it—afterwards. 
They’ll be much nicer clothes if I come too—but 
not before, after. . . . Much better to be mar¬ 
ried first. . . . Oh, John darling, could you 
face a large church, and a lot of people, and 
‘The Voice that breathed o’er Eden,’ and a re¬ 
ception at Anthony’s or Maude’s, and perhaps 
horrible confetti?” 

“My dearest, I’d face things forty times worse 
than any of those—to get you.” 

“But I can’t, John. I simply can’t. It’s no 
good. I don’t suppose I can ever explain . . . 
but I feel that all the sweetness and the beauty 
and the wonderfulness will be spoilt for me.” 

She was in dead earnest. There were tears in 
her eyes, and her little face was pale. 

John was distressed, and more puzzled than 
ever. 

“But, my dear, what do you want, then? 
Would you like to be married in a register 
office?” 


252 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


“Nothing would induce me to be married in a 
register office. I shouldn’t feel married—ever.” 

“Then what is to be done? Can you suggest 
anything?” 

Still kneeling, she was leaning against him and 
his arm was around her. With his other hand he 
lifted her downcast face and looked into her eyes. 

“Couldn’t we”—her voice sank to the merest 
whisper—“couldn’t w r e run away?” 

“Run away!” 

“Just go off and get married quietly in some 
little tucked-away old quiet church down in the 
City somewhere. You know the sort of dark old 
Georgian church, where nobody that will recog¬ 
nise us ever goes.” 

“Someone would be certain to hear the banns.” 

“Isn’t there such a thing as a licence?” 

John laughed. “And you really want this?” 

“More than I’ve wanted anything ever before.” 

“You’re sure you won’t regret it afterwards? 
A lot of people will be hurt, you know.” 

“A lot more will be awfully glad they haven’t 
got to give us a present.” 

“There’s something in that . . . but I’m not 
altogether sure about this scheme of yours. . . . 
You see, we ought to sign our wills directly after¬ 
wards, and how can they be prepared if we 
haven’t told our lawyers?” 

“Wills! Why, I made mine again just when 
Joe came.” 

“Yes; but marriage annuls all wills, and I 
won’t run any risks for you, else your people 
would have every right to be angry with me.” 

“Well, then, we must tell our lawyers and no- 


HER WAY 


253 


body else. Think, John, of all the fuss it will 
save. We’ll be married quite early. We’ll go and 
sign those silly wills, and then we can spend the 
rest of the day writing letters to tell our relatives 
we’ve done it.” 

“I’m hanged if I’m going to spend my wedding- 
day writing letters to relatives, or you either. 
And what about a honeymoon?” 

“We’ll have that after—at Easter, when you 
can get some leave.” 

“And where are we going to live?” 

“Don’t you see it’s just because all that has 
got to be settled that I want to be your wife? 
Then we can do things together. We must get 
rid of this house. ...” 

“Get rid of Thatches? But you love it!” 

“I love you a lot more. Do you imagine I’m 
going to live at Thatches when your work is in 
London? Of course, we must live in London.” 

“Will that be good for Joe?” 

“It will be much better for Joe to live with 
you in London than to live without you in the 
country. He’s a very healthy little boy. Chil¬ 
dren do all right in London if people are sensible. 
We were all brought up in London, and we’ve 
none of us had anything much the matter. When 
you retire we’ll live where you like. In summer 
perhaps we can live outside somewhere, but 
where your work is there our home must be. I 
shouldn’t wonder if the Miss Atkinsons would 
come back here. In a letter the other day the 
eldest gave a broad hint that if I wanted to break 
my lease . . . We’ll keep it for this summer— 
but after that we’ll need the furniture.” 


254 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


Wonderful, practical little Mellory! 

Yet no arguments could move her to allow 
John to announce their engagement to anybody 
but their respective lawyers. 

“I don’t mind Mr. Langdon,” she said; “he 
won’t ask any questions so long as everything is 
shipshape and legal.” 

“I don’t understand you a bit,” he sighed. 

“My dear, I know it sounds silly—but it isn’t 
really. It’s because this that has happened is 
so great, so sacred, so wonderful, I want to keep 
it in a holy place. After we’re married I don’t 
mind how much people congratulate me. The 
family may tell me all day long how lucky I am 
‘at my age’ to have made such an entirely satis¬ 
factory marriage; but then I shall have my ro¬ 
mance safe in the secret sanctuary of my heart. 
Nothing can touch it. Nothing can take it from 
me. Just because it has come so late it is the 
more precious, the more inviolable. You do un¬ 
derstand, John, because I believe deep down you 
feel the same. All my life I’m going to do what 

you like—will you do what I like just in this?” 
***** 

“You see,” she went on, “I’ve helped at five 
weddings in my own family, and I want mine 
to be entirely different, and ... I want it to 
be soon. If we wait to have announcements and 
things we can’t be married before Easter. If we 
are quick we can get it in before Lent.” 

“Where would you like to go?” 

“I’d like to go to Brighton, just to tell Aunt 
Helena, then I’d like to come straight back here 
to Joe. Suppose we were married on a Wednes- 


HER WAY 255 

day, could you take the week from the Tuesday 
night ?” 

‘Til take the week right enough—I must. But 
will you promise me that you’ll get rid of Mrs. 
Boase before we come back here? I couldn’t 
stand her just then. I know I couldn’t.” 

“But of course. I’ve thought it all out. I 
shall tell her on Monday that she must find some 
other quarters, and give her a date . . . and a 
little financial help. It will be quite easy.” 

“If it is so easy now, why have you never done 
it before?” 

“Because before there was only me. Now I’ve 
got you to think of. I can be perfectly firm now. 
Everything is so beautifully different.” 

John looked at her in wonder and said, wist¬ 
fully: “I would like Cynthia to know. Why 
shouldn’t Sir Geoffrey come and give you away? 
I can’t bear to think of some fusty old verger 
doing that.” 

Mellory shook her head. “No. Not even 
Cynthia or Geoff. Then nobody can be jealous 
or more hurt than anybody else. I’ll give myself 
to you, John—I’ve done it already really. . . . 
Hark! there’s Mrs. Boase come back. Now we 
must take an interest in the oratorio.” 


XI 


IN WHICH SHE GETS IT 

Little Joe was puzzled. 

Again his Mell had deserted him. 

As before, she had told him she was going, but 
this time only for a little while. 

To-day was Wednesday, and Mell had gone 
away yesterday by an afternoon train. Before 
she went she made him promise that he would say 
his prayers every night and morning till she came 
back. She was coming back, she said, on Satur¬ 
day, and she hoped Don would come with her. 

There was a sort of tension in the air of 
Thatches. Mittis Boase was going away. Going 
to-morrow. Men had already come to take away 
the “Americum orgum,” which was to be stored 
at Marlehouse. He had known for quite a long 
time that Mittis Boase was going, and was dimly 
conscious that she didn’t want to go—that she 
was what he called “ ’fended” because she was 
going. 

Russell and cook said “quite time, too.” 
Mittis Jones said she would miss her sadly. 

Margot said nothing, and Bill—he discussed the 
departure of Mittis Boase with Bill—said philo¬ 
sophically that “the best of friends must part 
sometimes.” Whereupon Joe inquired “how many 
times?” He was not quite sure of his own feel- 

256 


IN WHICH SHE GETS IT 


257 


ings towards Mittis Boase. He had long ago 
come to the conclusion that her conversation 
lacked variety, and she had a habit of talking 
about him, before him, as “a certain person/’ 
which he found irritating, as he knew perfectly 
well whom she meant. 

He regretted the “orgum,” and still admired 
the extraordinary sounds she could produce from 
it like a whole chorus of toy animals when you 
pulled their heads. 

Mell couldn’t do that with Beekinetwit. 

That afternoon, just after lunch, which he had 
in the nursery with Margot, the telephone bell 
rang, and, taking Joe with her, Margot went to 
answer it. She seemed to wait a long time before 
anything happened. 

“Hullo, hullo, hullo! Yes, mum”—and Joe 
knew it must be Mell ringing up to ask about 
him, as she always did. 

But Margot didn’t give the usual answer: 
“Quite well, mum, and a very good boy”; and 
he was disappointed, for he had been a very 
good boy. 

Red and excited, Margot stood at the tele¬ 
phone, evidently getting a long message. At 
last she said, in such a funny breathless voice: 
“Yes, mum; I hear, mum, perfectly. It’s quite 
clear, mum. Oh, I do hope you will be very 
happy, and I’m ever so glad.” 

Joe pulled at Margot’s hand. “Why are you 
glad? Tell me—quick.” 

Margot clasped the eager little hand. “Yes, 
mum, he’s here.” 

Then she made him stand on a chair with the 



258 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


two receivers at his ears—he had done it before— 
and far away he heard a little voice that said: 
“Joe, darling, I love you more than ever, and 
so does Don. Margot will tell you about us. 
Listen. ... I send you a butterfly kiss. Have 
you got it?” 

“Yes,” he shouted, “it tickled me. I’m very 
well and good, and I love you.” 

And the call ended. 

Margot lifted him off the chair and hugged him 
hard. “Something wonderful’s happened,” she 
said. “Miss Upton’s married—not that I’m a bit 
surprised; you could see it was coming.” 

“What’s married?” Joe asked. 

And before Margot could answer Mrs. Boase 
came into the room. 

“Was that the telephone?” she asked. “Who 
was it?” 

“Mell,” Joe answered. 

“Mrs. Mill,” Margot said at the same instant, 
most distinctly. 

“Mrs. Who?” Mrs. Boase asked. 

“Mell it was, I spoke to her,” Joe said again. 
“She sent be a buffly kiss.” 

“It was Mrs. Mill,” Margot said again, almost 
pompously. “Miss Upton was married this morn¬ 
ing to Mr. John Mill. 

“Married!—without telling any of us . . .! 

Secretly married? Did you know before?” 

“No, mum, I didn’t know—though I thought it 
couldn’t be far off.” 

“What’s married?” Joe asked again. 

Mrs. Boase turned to him. “You’ll know soon 


IN WHICH SHE GETS IT 259 

enough, poor child,” she said. “A certain person’s 
nose will be put sadly out of joint.” 

Joe hastily clasped his nose, but it was there 
all right, and he wondered why Margot, redder 
than ever, said angrily: “I should have thought, 
mum, you’d have known Mrs. Mill better than 
that—an’ you been here so long an’ all. Come, 
my precious, an’ we’ll go an’ tell cook and 
Russell.” 

“An’ Dinah an’ Dundee an’ Bill,” Joe added. 

“Bless you,” Margot said, “me and Bill guessed 
it weeks ago.” 

Mrs. Boase caught up a shawl and started down 
the drive to tell Mrs. Jones. 

Half-way down she met Mrs. Prescott’s car 
coming up, and stopped it. 

“Have you heard?” she cried. 

“Isn’t it splendid?” Mrs. Prescott answered, 
her pretty face eager and rosy. “We’ve been 
wanting it badly for ages, but the dears were so 
slow—and then to steal a march on us all like 
this—isn’t it fun? But I mustn’t stop you. I’ve 
come over to take Joe and Margot back; they’ll 
like that, I know.” 

“Don’t you think,” Mrs. Boase said, with her 
hand on the window of the car, “that it’s absurd 
at her age to make all this mystery? One can 
understand an elopement when people are young 
and romantic—but at her age! Can you under¬ 
stand it?” 

Mrs. Prescott’s pretty face twinkled, and then 
grew soft and tender. “I think I can understand 
Mellory. She’s very sensitive, very reserved in 
some ways—and, after all, you know, theirs is 


260 THE REALLY ROMANTIC AGE 


the really romantic age. It’s the young people 
who are practical. I’ve always known that John, 
deep down, was as romantic as he could be. It’s 
a perfect marriage; don’t you think so?” 

“I really can’t express an opinion,” Mrs. Boase 
said stiffly. “I didn’t see much of Mr. Mill when 
he was down here, but he seemed an agreeable 
man.” 

“I’m so glad,” Mrs. Prescott said solemnly, 
“that I simply must hug somebody, so I’m going 
to get Joe. He’s such a handy size.” 



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